8ERTRAND 
AC.RES  01-  BOOKS 

140   PACIFIC   AVENUB 
UON«  BEACH    CALIF. 


HIGH-WATER-MARK. 


A  NOVEL. 


BY 

FERRIS    JEROME. 


"  The  great  moral  combat  between  human  life 
And  each  human  soul  must  be  single." 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &  CO. 
1879. 


Copyright,  1879,  by  J-  B-  LlPPlNCOTT  &  Co. 


HIGH-WATER-MARK. 


FIRST   BOOK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"DULL,  dull,  dull!" 

Burr  Courtenay  (an  accomplished  representative  of  a 
learned  profession),  tipped  back  in  a  revolving  office-chair, 
with  his  feet  elevated  upon  a  round,  rusty  stove,  in  which 
an  uncheerful  fire  smouldered,  removed  a  cigar  from  his 
lips  and  made  this  return,  in  an  indolent  tone,  to  the 
above  observation  : 

"Well,  Mr.  Burns,  I  expected  something  rather  more 
original  after  such  protracted  meditation." 

The  first  speaker  wheeled  around  and  came  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  stove. 

"Is  it  likely,"  said  he,  with  some  asperity,  "that  adaily 
prospect  from  that  point  of  observation,"  indicating  the 
murky  window  which  looked  out  on  the  bleak  main  street 
of  a  very  bleak  prairie  village,  "  is  calculated  to  develop 
originality?" 

"Genius,  Charles,"  said  his  companion,  mildly,  "is 
not  dependent  upon  outward  circumstances,  it  takes  fire 
from  within." 

"It  has  got  to  have  something  to  feed  on  after  it  has 
taken  fire,  has  it  not?"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  I  am  not  sure 
but  it  needs  a  little  extraneous  influence  to  kindle  it. 
Though  I  pray  you  not  to  suppose,"  he  added,  "that  I 
lay  any  claim  to  genius.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  you 
mention  the  word  in  this  connection." 

"  I  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "  because  of  your 

3 


2046129 


4  HIGH-  WA  TER-  MARK. 

having  intimated  to  me  some  days  ago  that  you  intended 
to  write  a  poem ;  and  it  was  in  my  mind,  as  you  stood 
there,  that  the  poem  might  be  in  process  of  fermentation. 
But  your  remark  dispelled  the  thought.  By  the  way, 
Charley,"  he  continued,  "what  do  you  suppose  kindled 
the  flame  of  the  Scottish  bard  who  bore  your  own  illus- 
trious name?  Was  it  the  Highlands,  those  poetic  hills 
breathing  the  rhythmic  name  of  Albion  ?  Or  was  it  the 
Highland  lassies,  adding  their  quaint  beauty  to  the  pictur- 
esque scenery,  that  inspired  his  pen?  Or  was  it  the 
ploughshare?" 

"Perhaps  it  was — all  of  those,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  a 
faint  smile,  again  throwing  his  melancholy  glance  from 
the  window  across  the  bare,  brown,  deserted  street. 

"There  is  a  tradition  in  our  family,"  he  added,  irrele- 
vantly, "  or  was,  before  our  family  was  reduced  to  its 
present  insignificance,  that  Robert  Burns  belonged  to  our 
ancestry.  But  I  repudiate  it;  I  don't  want  to  hang  to 
any  man's  coat-tails." 

The  homely  and  trite  figure  suggested  a  literal  fact  to 
Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Charley,"  said  he,  with  indolent  apprehension,  "you 
are  in  a  fair  way  to  ruin  your  own  coat-tails;  why  don't 
you  tuck  your  broadcloth  under  your  arms  when  you 
stand  with  your  back  to  the  stove?" 

"I  wouldn't  assume  that  boorish  attitude  for  all  the 
broadcloth  in  High-Water-Mark,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  mag- 
nificently, moving  away  and  seating  himself  on  a  high 
stool  by  the  desk. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  whose  mind  was  in 
that  unoccupied  state  which  catches  at,  and  is  willing  to 
give  a  kind  of  inactive  attention  to,  any  trivial  thought 
that  floats  by,  as  a  feather  or  a  butterfly  is  borne  idly  on 
the  air,  "what  originated  such  a  name  for  this  village?" 

"Spring  rains,  I  fancy,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"Ah,  maybe  so,  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  I  have 
heard  that  sometimes  in  the  breaking-up  of  the  ice  and 
snow  the  river  greatly  overflows  its  banks.  It  may  be  that 
when  they  laid  the  town-plot  they  extended  it  just  as  far 
as  the  high-water  mark,  and  hence  the  name." 

"The  river  has  never  exceeded  its  banks  much  since 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  5 

we  have  been  here,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  adding,  gloomily, 
"and  we  have  been  here  three  years." 

"  Two  years  and  a  half,  Charley,"  corrected  his  friend, 
deprecatingly. 

"Well,  we  shall  be  here  three  years.  I  feel  as  if  it 
would  be  all  the  same  if  we  could  project  ourselves  into 
the  future  ten,  twenty,  forty  years,  and  look  back  upon 
them  as  already  past.  We  shall  probably  go  on  and  on, 
like  Tennyson's  brook,  and  the  story  will  have,  from  year 
to  year,  a  remarkable  sameness.  A  feeling  comes  upon 
me  that  we  are  simply  waiting  for  the  years  to  tide  over 
us  and  leave  us,  at  last,  stranded  and  dead  on  the  beach. 
Noble  souls !  Burr,  candidly,  do  you  think  it  will  pay, 
our  sticking  here  all  these  years?" 

Mr.  Burns  fixed  his  deep-set  blue  eyes,  with  the  brows 
just  now  almost  meeting  above  them,  upon  his  companion 
with  such  earnestness  and  energy  of  expression  as  to  make 
them  appear,  for  the  moment,  intensely  and  brilliantly 
black. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  quite  unmoved,  returned,  "  Pay?  Why, 
of  course  it  will  pay  !  Won't  there  be  a  railroad  through 
here  one  of  these  days?  Isn't  that  what  we  have  been 
waiting  for?" 

"It  is  what  we  have  been  waiting  for,  certainly;  but 
the  prospects  for  a  road  were  just  as  '  immediate'  three 
years  ago  as  they  are  now.  And  in  the  mean  time  we  are 
getting  rusty.  We  are  tinctured  with  Western  habits  and 
dialect.  And  then  we  don't  have  any  practice,  and  when 
the  railroad  does  come, — Heaven  speed  the  day  ! — won't 
it  bring  troops  of  new  lawyers,  fresh  from  Eastern  cities, 
and  won't  they  have  the  preference?" 

"God  forbid  !"  said  Burr,  fervently.  "I  don't  think 
they  will,  Charley;  I  have  more  faith  in  the  people  of 
this  community  than  that.  We  are  making  heavy  claims 
upon  them  by  our  long  and  patient  residence  among 
them." 

"If  they  could  only  appreciate  that !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
"  My  fear  is  that  they  may  repudiate  our  '  claims'  before 
the  railroad  comes.  Two  such  accomplished  barristers  as 
ourselves  is  a  considerable  investment  in  legal  talent  for  a 
village  like  this." 

i* 


6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"I  am  certain  of  one  thing,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  get- 
ting up  and  dropping  the  stump  of  his  cigar  in  the  ashes, 
and  then  taking  a  turn  around  the  room  with  his  hands  in 
his  trousers'  pockets, — "that  if  five  hundred  law-graduates 
were  to  immigrate  to  this  town  to-morrow,  no  two  in  all 
that  number  would  be  so  well  read,  Charley,  as  you  and 
I.  I  speak  with  modesty." 

"No;  we  have  done  little  else  but  read,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "But  where  is  the  good  of  it?" 

"It  will  not  be  thrown  away,  Charley.  You  know 
that  in  the  grand  economy  of  Nature  (and,  too,  of  Reve- 
lation, I  suppose,  under  which  head  I  conclude  Blackstone 
is  classified)  nothing  is  lost.  You  can  follow  the  drop  of 
dew  through  all  its  changing  history  and  know  that  it 
cannot  perish.  Are  not  the  gems  of  intellect  as  un- 
quenchable? There  is  no  death  to  the  soul,  or  to  any- 
thing born  of  the  soul.  If  there  were  not  a  single  Bible 
extant,  or  the  vaguest  scriptural  tradition,  I  should  still 
hold  to  the  theory  of  immortality,  basing  it  upon  the  in- 
destructibility of  things." 

Mr.  Courtenay,  adroit  diplomatist  that  he  was,  had  hit 
upon  a  thought  which  he  knew  would  divert  his  com- 
panion's mind  from  the  gloomy  prospect  of  remaining  in 
a  town  destitute  of  railroads. 

After  a  little  silence  he  took  it  up  and  remarked,  "The 
only  immortality  that  I  have  any  conception  of  as  regards 
man — or  rather,  the  only  theory  that  my  knowledge  and 
reason  accepts  without  a  doubt — is  the  throwing  out  of 
influence  that  will  last  until  its  force  is  spent,  like  a  ball 
pitched  into  the  air.  And  there  is  a  correspondence  be- 
tween that  and  your  dew-drop  ;  whatever  form  it  takes  it 
still  adheres  to  the  earth.  There  are  a  few  men  that  lived 
centuries  ago  whose  balls  are  spinning  through  the  world 
yet." 

"My  dear  Charley,"  said  his  friend  (but  I  am  bound 
to  explain  to  the  reader,  who  might  otherwise,  in  the 
perusal  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  history,  look  upon  him  as 
singularly  inconsistent,  that  he  argued  partly  for  the  sake 
of  argument,  and  partly  because  he  loved  to  hold  up  a 
question  like  a  prism,  and  catch  as  many  rays  of  light  as 
it  was  capable  of  reflecting),  "if  that  is  all  the  immor- 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  7 

tality  we  can  count  upon,  it  is  hardly  worth  spending  a 
lifetime  for.  What  is  fame,  or  anything,  to  a  man  if  he 
dies  and  is  oblivious?" 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  and  repeated,  in  a  voice  deep 
and  melodious,  and  whose  modulation  was  perfect, — 

"  '  When  the  grass  is  green  above  me, 

And  those  who  bless  me  now  and  love  me 

Are  sleeping  by  my  side, 
Will  it  avail  me  aught  that  men 
Tell  to  the  world  with  lip  and  pen 

That  once  I  lived  and  died  ? 

"  '  No ;  if  a  garland  for  my  brow 
Is  growing,  let  me  have  it  now, 
While  I'm  alive  to  wear  it.' 

Or  else  let  me  have  a  conscious  immortality  after  death. 
If  fame — which  is  a  mere  breath  blown  over  our  graves — 
is  the  price  to  be  paid  for  our  grandest  achievements,  life, 
as  I  remarked,  is  not  worth  the  living." 
"  Bah  !"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  a  shrug, — 

"  '  What  is  our  life  worth  except  in  the  giving 

Of  life  to  some  aim  ?     What's  the  good  of  mere  living !' 

You  always  go  in  for  the  individual,  Burr.  You  never 
can  identify  yourself  with  a  mighty  movement,  or  merge 
your  energies  in  a  great  cause  and  lose  sight  of  self.  Burr 
Courtenay  is  the  grand  object  you  have  always  in  view. 
What  is  the  difference  which  particular  '  I'  it  is  that  accom- 
plishes something  for  the  good  of  the  world,  so  that  the 
something  is  accomplished  ?  What  matter  who  wrote  the 
Iliad  since  it  is  written,  or  what  do  you  or  I  or  any  man 
care  for  Homer, — the  Homer  who  walked  about,  and  ate, 
and  drank,  and  slept  ?  His  personality  died  centuries  ago  ; 
it  is  nothing  to  us  or  to  the  world.  And  because  an  in- 
spiration was  breathed  through  him  upon  the  world,  was 
he  better  than  another  ?  I  have  no  particular  reverence  for 
the  instrument  on  which  a  fine  piece  of  music  is  played. 
I  hate  this  detaching  of  oneself  from  the  body  of  human- 
ity, as  though  one  particle  were  better  than  another." 

"Perhaps  one  particle  is  no  better  than  another,"  said 
Mr.  Courtenay,  "viewed  by  a  disinterested  party, — say 
a  cherub  or  an  archangel  some  leagues  removed  from  us 


8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

as  regards  both  space  and  interest, — but  you  must  allow 
me  to  discriminate  between  myself  and  the  other  particles. 
I  have  but  one  office  to  perform  in  life,  I  take  it ;  and 
when  I  perform  it  perfectly,  admitting  even  that  I  do  it 
without  reference  to  anything  outside  of  myself,  do  I  not 
chime  in  with  the  grand  harmony  of  the  universe  ?  Is 
there  any  law  in  my  being  that  clashes  with  my  fellow- 
beings?" 

"You  lose  sight  of  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  im- 
patiently, "or,  rather,  you  evade  it.  You  are  not  think- 
ing of  the  universe  or  of  mankind,  and  of  being  true  to 
them  as  the  stars  are  true,  or  as  Moses  was  true :  you  are 
thinking  of  yourself." 

"Well,  suppose  I  admit  that,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay, 
good-naturedly.  "The  atom  which  I  call  '  I1  is  of  vital 
importance  to  me,  though  perhaps  to  no  one  else.  It  is 
of  moment  to  me  whether  I  or  another  occupy  such  or 
such  a  position,  or  enjoy  such  or  such  an  existence,  just 
as  it  is  of  moment  to  me  whether  I  or  somebody  else  eat 
my  dinner.  Mind,  I  say  it  is  of  importance  to  me,  not 
that  the  universe  will  suffer  in  the  case.  I  and  my  neigh- 
bor are  balancing  like  the  two  sides  of  an  equation  ;  it  is 
of  no  consequence  which  of  us  takes  from  the  other,  the 
world  remains  the  same.  The  Almighty  has  planted  this 
dominant  '  I'  in  every  breast ;  and  it  is  right.  It  is  right 
that  every  man  shall  feel  himself  a  king,  and  not  be  for- 
ever giving  up  his  place  in  the  meek  spirit  of  self-sacrifice. 
Will  you  please  reach  me  that  document  in  the  upper 
right-hand  pigeon-hole?"  he  asked,  turning  away  from 
the  window  at  which  he  had  been  standing.  "  It  is  old 
man  Jenkins's  will.  I  see  him  crossing  the  street  and 
heading  this  way.  I  presume  he  wishes  to  add  another 
codicil.  If  he  keeps  on  I  shall  have  to  pin  a  fresh  legal- 
cap  sheet  to  this  instrument." 

Mr.  Burns  handed  down  the  paper,  and  Mr.  Courtenay 
reseated  himself  grandly  in  the  revolving  office-chair. 
He  was  exceedingly  handsome  and  majestic  in  appearance  ; 
rather  massive  about  the  head  and  shoulders,  with  a  lion's 
mane  of  black,  glossy  hair  curling  about  his  coat-collar, 
a  trifle  longer  than  the  fashion,  perhaps,  but  strikingly 
becoming. 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  9 

Nature  had  turned  him  out  as  complete  a  specimen  of 
his  kind  as  one  will  see  in  a  lifetime;  and  art  had  fin- 
ished him  off  with  an  exquisite  polish  in  which  there  were 
many  ingredients  of  good  and  evil.  Some  years  ago 
when  he  first  dawned  upon  Mr.  Burns,  his  remarkable 
beauty  of  face  and  physique  was  even  more  dazzling  and 
resplendent  ;  being  fed  by  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  which 
alone  can  tinge  the  cheeks  and  fire  the  eyes  and  animate 
the  whole  being  with  a  marvellous  grace  and  glory.  More- 
over, he  was  finely  educated,  cultured,  distinguished  in 
appearance,  and,  though  somewhat  reserved  and  haughty 
in  bearing,  he  was  gentle  and  courteous  in  manner. 

Long  association  had  brushed  off  some  of  the  outer 
splendor  and  revealed  to  the  confident  and  appreciative 
friend  more  of  the  inner  worth.  Whatever  seemed  cold, 
or  selfish,  or  biased  in  him  (and  it  is  true  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  such  seeming)  Mr.  Burns  thrust  aside,  or 
chafed  at,  as  affectation,  or,  at  the  worst,  as  the  fungous 
growth  of  circumstances.  He  had  penetrated  to  the  core 
of  Burr's  grand  nature,  and  believed  in  him  as  he  believed 
in  all  absolute  good,  and  truth,  and  nobility.  As  for  his 
vanity,  which  showed  itself  in  his  fine  manners  and  grace- 
ful courtesy, — especially  to  women, — Mr.  Burns  cared 
nothing  for  that  now ;  was  a  little  contemptuous  of  it  in 
fact  (though  it  had  helped  to  dazzle  him  once) ;  being 
himself  very  free  from  mere  outside  polish.  Whatever 
was  pleasing  and  beautiful  to  others  in  him  radiated  from 
the  centre  of  his  being. 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  about  his  friend  that 
was  exceedingly  unsatisfactory  and  sometimes  absolutely 
painful  to  him.  It  was,  that  Burr  never  took  him  into  his 
inmost  heart  to  show  him  its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  motives, 
its  secret  workings,  nor  ever  revealed  to  him  a  glimpse 
of  his  past  life  except  incidentally.  Never  purposely  dis- 
closed his  tenderer  and  better  nature,  but  continually 
baffled  his  affectionate  sympathy,  and,  indeed,  seemed  to 
ward  off,  by  a  shield  of  triviality  which  he  perpetually 
carried,  any  grave  confidences  which  Mr.  Burns  himself 
might  have  liked  to  make  to  him.  There  was  no  getting 
at  him  somehow,  or  at  the  reality  in  him.  In  discussion, 
he  took  up  any  side  of  a  question  that  presented  itself  to 
A* 


I  o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

him  without  regard  to  any  previous  opinion  he  might 
have  expressed  concerning  it;  declaring  all  things  to  be 
so  many-sided  that  it  was  impossible  always  to  take  the 
same  view. 

"I  look  upon  every  subject  as  a  landscape,"  said  he, 
"which  may  be  studied  from  many  different  stand-points 
and  in  many  changing  lights  and  shadows.  One  view  may 
be  as  good  and  as  true  as  another ;  why  limit  myself  to 
this  or  that  ?"  Which  broad  philosophy,  though  unobjec- 
tionable in  itself,  was  sometimes  very  exasperating  to  his 
mercurial  companion. 

Personal  elegance  was  a  strong  habit  with  Mr.  Courte- 
nay.  He  was  a  splendid  creature  and  well  worth  being 
well  kept.  But  he  would  have  sat  there  with  the  office 
festooned  with  dust  and  cobwebs  from  one  year's  end  to 
another  if  Mr.  Burns  had  not  flourished  a  broom  over 
the  walls  and  ceiling  once  a  month  or  so. 

Mr.  Burns  was  fastidious  as  to  his  surroundings,  and 
cared  more  for  his  own  comfort  than  for  the  impressions 
he  made  on  the  minds  of  others.  There  was  a  principle 
running  through  his  life  that  he  endeavored  to  control 
his  actions  by,  paying  little  heed  to  results. 

Mr.  Jenkins  opened  the  door  and  let  himself  in  with  a 
modest  air,  as  though  he  deprecated  the  liberty  he  was 
taking.  Mr.  Burns's  utter  indifference  as  he  made  his 
appearance,  and  Mr.  Courtenay's  imposing  manner,  justi- 
fied the  feeling  that  he  was  taking  a  liberty. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Jenkins,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay, 
in  a  deep  voice,  a  trifle  reassuringly. 

To  which  Mr.  Jenkins  responded,  rubbing  his  hands 
over  each  other  as  if  they  were  cold,  and  advancing 
into  the  room,  "  Good-evenin'.  GW^-evenin',  Mr. 
Burns." 

The  deprecating  air  extended  in  particular  to  Mr. 
Burns,  who  was  really  the  more  formidable  of  the  two, 
because  of  a  certain  fineness  of  nature  and  keenness  of 
perception,  which,  linked  with  uncompromising  princi- 
ples, impressed  upon  the  designer  or  the  impostor  the 
feeling  that  he  was  unmasked.  There  was  no  wavering 
in  the  direct  glance  of  his  steel-blue  eyes. 

He   nodded  distantly  and  pushed  the  visitor  a  chair 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  II 

with  his  foot,  after  which  act  of  scant  courtesy  he  with- 
drew himself  from  Mr.  Jenkins's  spiritual  atmosphere. 
He  still  maintained  his  position  on  the  high  stool  by  the 
desk  ;  his  hat,  which  he  had  a  habit  of  wearing  in  the 
office,  was  pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  and  his  mouth 
had  a  slight  curve,  which  gave  to  his  fine,  classical  face  a 
half-contemptuous  expression  that  was  somewhat  habitual. 

Mr.  Courtenay  and  Mr.  Jenkins  began  conversation  by 
speaking  of  the  weather,  perhaps  the  only  common  ground 
between  them  outside  of  the  latter's  business,  which,  of 
course,  could  not  be  entered  upon  without  some  such 
preliminary.  Said  Mr.  Jenkins,  "  I've  jist  about  made 
up  my  min'  to  leave  this  'ere  blasted  cole  country  an 
go  to  a  warmer  climate.  A  man  freezes  the  very  marrer 
out  o'  his  bones  on  these  big  prairies.  I'd  pull  up  stakes 
an'  go  in  a  minit  if  I  could  sell  out." 

"Go — where?"  asked  Mr.  Courtenay,  with  a  slight 
widening  of  his  long  eyelids. 

"  Why,  down  into  Arkansaw.  I've  got  a  brother-in- 
law  down  there,  been  a  wantin'  me  to  come  this  three 
year.  But  ye  see,  what  little  I've  got  's  a' most  all  tied 
up  in  Ian'.  Not  so  very  little  either,  he !  he!"  with  a 
glance  at  Mr.  Burns.  "  Wouldn't  be  a  very  easy  matter 
to  cut  loose  these  hard  times." 

Mr.  Courtenay  discouraged  emigration  ;  what  the  coun- 
try needed  was  more  men,  women,  and  children.  Though 
of  course  there  would  come  a  time,  when  the  population 
began  to  thicken,  for  Mr.  Jenkins — and  others — to  float 
off  naturally,  like  the  scum  from  a  boiling  kettle.  But 
the  time  was  not  yet  ripe. 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  said  he,  in  his  smooth,  polished 
manner,  "  that  our  cold,  frozen  winters  are  more  con- 
ducive to  health  than  those  warmer  latitudes?" 

"Well,  I  dunno  but  they  be,"  admitted  Mr.  Jenkins, 
readily.  "  Me  nor  none  o*  my  fam'ly  hev  been  sick  a 
week,  put  it  all  together,  sence  we've  been  here,  an'  that's 
ten  year.  But  then  it's  too  cole  fur  a  farm  in'  country. 
Why,  they  begin  seedin*  down  there  in  Arkansaw  while 
we're  a  settin'  by  the  fire  waitin'  fur  the  groun'-hog  to 
come  out  an'  see  his  shadder." 

"How  many  crops  do  they  raise  there  in  a  year?" 


12  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

asked  Mr.  Burns,  severely,  fixing  Mr.  Jenkins  with  his 
penetrating  gaze. 

"  Eh  ! — how  many  crops?"  he  returned,  struck,  seem- 
ingly, by  the  newness  of  the  suggestion  conveyed  in  the 
inquiry.  "Why,  one,  I  'spose, — the  same  as  they  raise 
anywheres." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  they  raised  more  than  one,  seeing 
they  begin  so  early  in  the  season,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  who  was  far  more  gifted  in  the  way  of 
sarcasm  than  his  friend,  had  a  velvet  suavity  that  was 
careful,  usually,  to  veil  it  from  the  object  at  which  it  was 
directed.  He  came  to  his  client's  aid  and  said,  in  a  con- 
ciliatory accent,  that  he  presumed  Mr.  Burns  thought  if 
only  one  crop  could  be  raised  in  a  year  it  did  not  matter 
greatly  what  particular  time  of  year. 

"Well,  but,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  who  had  a  stubborn 
set  of  opinions,  "ye  see,  the  thing  is  to  git  yer  crop  in 
airly;  there's  a  mighty  sight  o'  difference  in  bein"  airly 
an'  in  bein'  late." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "about  like  the 
difference,  longitudinally,  between  New  York  and  High- 
Water-Mark  ;  the  sun  wakes  them  up  a  little  earlier  there, 
but  their  day'is  no  longer  than  ours,  and  the  morning  is 
just  as  fresh  when  it  reaches  us  as  when  it  broke  upon  the 
Atlantic." 

Leaving  Mr.  Jenkins  to  ponder  feebly  over  this  bit  of 
mathematical  geography,  Mr.  Burns  again  retired  in  a 
spiritual  sense. 

Mr.  Courtenay  sat  intently  scanning  the  will  with  its 
several  codicils  annexed,  smoothing  his  glossy  beard  with 
one  white  hand  and  waiting  for  the  old  man  to  mention 
his  errand;  whereupon  he  replied,  promptly,  "I  happen 
to  have  the  document  in  my  hand  at  this  moment ;  what 
is  it  you  wish?" 

"  Well,  as  I  tole  ye  afore,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  "I  didn't 
mean  to  will  any  o'  the  Ian'  to  my  dotter  Sary  Ann,  bein' 
as  she  was  engaged  to  Jim  Sites  that  has  a' most  as  much 
Ian'  as  I  hev  myself.  But,  ye  see,  Jim  an'  her's  fell  out, 
an'  she  says  she'll  never  hev  him  now,  no  how.  She's 
purty  high-strung,  Sary  Ann  is,  when  she  gits  her  dander 
up." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 3 

Mr.  Jenkins  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  again  glanced 
at  Mr.  Burns,  who  sat  as  deaf  as  a  post. 

Mr.  Courtenay  elevated  his  eyebrows  without  raising 
his  eyes,  and  repeated,  mechanically,  "Fell  out." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  screwing  his  little,  old, 
wrinkled  face  up  into  what  was  intended  to  be  a  face- 
tious expression,  and  pointing  with  his  thumb.  "  Ye 
see,  the  way  of  it  was,  Jim  he  got  jealous  o'  Mr.  Burns 
here." 

Mr.  Burns  again  fixed  his  eyes  coldly  on  the  visitor's 
face. 

"'Twa'n't  nuthin'  o'  no  account,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins, 
fidgeting  a  little,  "only,  ye  see,  away  las'  summer  when 
Sary  Ann  was  a  pickin'  berries  inside  the  garden  fence, 
Mr.  Burns,  he  comes  along  an'  stops  an'  leans  agin  the 
fence  to  chat  a  spell,  an'  Sary  Ann  she  gives  him  a  han'- 
ful  o'  berries.  An'  same  time  Jim  he  comes  a  ridin'  up 
the  lane  an"  sees  'em  there.  Well,  he's  been  a  fussin' 
about  it,  off  an'  on,  ever  sence.  'Specially  ef  he  sees 
Sary  Ann  a  talkin'  to  or  recognizin'  them  as  she  says  is 
his  betters." 

By  a  peculiar  chuckle  and  wink  Mr.  Jenkins  made  the 
latter-  part  of  his  speech  a  personal  compliment,  including 
both  gentlemen. 

Mr.  Courtenay  made  as  if  he  would  rather  not  be  in- 
cluded. 

"I  hope  you  don't  take  no  offence  for  the  mentionin' 
o'  your  name,  Mr.  Burns?"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  humbly. 

"  None  whatever.  I  cannot  see  that  the  affair  concerns 
me  in  the  least,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  exaggerated  indif- 
ference. 

"Of  course,"  the  old  man  continued,  hopefully,  "Jim's 
good  enough  in  his  way, — got  a  better  start  'n  most  o'  the 
young  men  has  aroun'  here  ;  but  fur  all  that,  he's  hardly 
the  sort  for  Sary  Ann.  I've  tole  her  so  time  an'  ag'in. 
I've  tole  her  to  hold  her  head  a  leetle  higher  'n  that. 
She's  twice  as  well-edicated  as  him  ;  she's  got  a  certifiket 
an'  's  a  goin'  to  teach  school  this  winter." 

Mr.  Burns,  feeling  a  strong  aversion  to  'being  loaded 
with  any  responsibility  about  the  young  lady,  and  strong 
indignation  at  the  likelihood  of  such  responsibility  being 


!  4  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

thrust  upon  him,  spoke  out  in  reply  to  the  old  man's 
insinuations  with — as  Mr.  Courtenay  subsequently  de- 
scribed it — great  force  and  clearness. 

"Mr.  Jenkins,  you  may  give  my  compliments  to  Mr. 
Sites,  and  tell  him  he  has  no  cause  for  jealousy  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned.  You  may  say  to  him  that  I  am  not  a 
marrying  man.  And  it  is  my  advice  to  you,  gratis, — and 
it  is  not  often  a  lawyer  proffers  his  opinion  so  cheap, — that 
you  had  better  get  your  daughter  to  make  up  with  the 
young  man.  As  you  say,  he  has  a  better  start  than  most 
fellows  have,  and  I  doubt  if  she  can  do  better." 

Mr.  Jenkins  was  awed  into  silence  by  this  unequivocal 
logic. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  who  had  sat  a  silent  listener,  with  an 
unreadable  expression  of  countenance,  hastened  to  bring 
forward  the  subject  of  the  will.  "You  wish  to  transfer 
some  of  the  property  herein  mentioned  to  your  daughter, 
I  conclude?" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  somewhat  relieved, 
hitching  his  chair  a  little  nearer.  "Ye  see,  bein'  onset- 
tied  like,  an'  havin'  no  def'nite  prospects  afore  her,  as 
one  may  say,  an'  knowin'  my  liability  to  drop  off  enny 
minute"  (Mr.  Jenkins  had  a  cheerful  habit  of  predicting 
a  sudden  terminus  to  his  career),  "I  feel  's  if  it's  my 
duty  to  make  some  pervision  fur  her  's  well  's  the  rest  of 
'em,  ag'inst  my  demise." 

"Certainly,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Courtenay,  holding  his 
pen  suspended  over  the  paper. 

"Well,  ye  may  jist  change  that  last  quarter-section  we 
was  disposin'  of  the  other  day,  an'  set  it  down  to  Sary 
Ann's  credit ;  then  they'll  all  fare  purty  much  alike,  gals 
an'  boys." 

Mr.  Courtenay  made  the  required  alteration  with  de- 
spatch. 

Mr.  Jenkins  got  up  and  crossed  over  to  give  his  admir- 
ing attention  to  the  lawyer's  dexterity  of  pen. 

"  Now,  I  couldn't  make  a  scratch  holdin'  my  pen 
atween  my  fingers  like  that,"  said  he,  with  his  head  on 
one  side  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

When  the  new  addition  or  correction  was  properly 
approved,  Mr.  Courtenay  asked,  diplomatically, — 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  1 5 

"Is  there  anything  further,  Mr.  Jenkins?  lam  par- 
ticularly engaged  this  evening,  and  if  there  is  nothing 
more " 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  of  nuthin'  more  at  present,  I 
believe,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  reflectively.  "I  guess  Sary 
Ann's  all  right  now,  Jim  Sites  or  no  Jim  Sites,  he  !  he  ! 
That's  what  you  might  call  a  purty  good  dowry  fur  a 
young  woman,  ain't  it?" 

"Very  good,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"  There's  not  many  gals  a  gittin'  married  nowadays 
that's  as  well  pervided  fur,  I'll  bet  a  'tater !  A  little 
money  on  the  wife's  side  comes  handy  to  a  young  feller 
jist  startin'  in  life.  My  ole  woman  had  a  thousan'  dol- 
lars, an'  it  gev  me  a  mighty  good  lift.  Ye  see,  when  ye 
once  git  the  ball  a  rollin'  it  doubles  up  pretty  fast." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  cautiously,  re- 
flecting that  he  had  very  little  experimental  knowledge  on 
that  head. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins,  finally,  "I  guess  I'll  hev 
to  be  goin' ;  it's  about  supper-time  't  our  house.  Why 
don't  you  gentlemen  call  round  some  time  an'  git  better 
acquainted?  We  ain't  got  much  of  a  place,  but  it's  not 
the  house,  I  al'ays  tell  my  ole  woman,  it's  the  people  a 
body  goes  to  see — an'  the  victuals,  he!  he!  We've 
gen'ally  got  a  little  sumpin'  t'  eat.  I  sh'd  think  ye'd  git 
awful  lonesome  stickin'  here,  year  in  an1  year  out,  the  way 
you  do." 

"  It  is  a  little  lonely,  sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 
And  the  visitor  crossed  over  to  the  door  and  bowed  him- 
self out,  just  as  he  had  bowed  himself  in,  with, — 

"  Good-evenin',  Mr.  Courtenay.  Gflfldf-evenin',  Mr. 
Burns." 

The  last  named  returned  the  courtesy  briefly,  as  before. 

Mr.  Courtenay  remarked,  glancing  around,  "  Charley, 
you  remind  me  very  much  of  Poe's  '  Raven.' ' 

"  Wouldn't  the  likeness  be  more  striking  if  I  had  a 
Roman  nose  and  darker  eyes?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  You  misapprehend  me,  Charley,"  said  his  friend.  "  I 
meant,  simply,  that  you  brought  the  idea  of  the  poem  to 
my  mind.  I  had  reference  to  your  expression  only,  which, 


!6  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

had  I  spoken  literally  even,  overcame  entirely  the  color 
of  your  hair  and  eyes,  and  suggested  that  ominous  bird. 
I  hardly  think,"  he  added,  deprecatingly,  "that  you 
could  classify  my  nose  as  a  Roman  nose ;  to  go  back  to 
the  classics,  it  is  more  properly  a  Grecian  nose." 

"  Possibly.  I  am  not  very  well  up  in  classical  lore," 
said  Mr.  Burns. 

After  a  little  silence,  Mr.  Courtenay  said,  "  By  the  way, 
Charley,  can  we  not  do  something  this  evening?  It  is 
miserably  dull,  as  you  observed.  Suppose  we  go  up  to  the 
deacon's  and  spend  the  evening?" 

Mr.  Burns  objected. 

"Why  not?" 

"Burr,  you  and  I  don't  intend  to  marry  those  young 
ladies." 

"Admitted." 

"Then  we  must  let  them  alone.  They  put  more  stress 
on  our  trifling  attentions  than  our  motives  justify.  You 
know  how  it  is,  people  expect  us  to  marry ;  they  keep 
looking  out  for  it,  and  our  little  civilities,  no  matter  in 
what  direction,  pass  for  much  more  than  they  are  worth. 
The  ultra-democracy  of  a  newly-settled  country  puts  us  on 
an  exact  level  with  everybody.  A  little  politeness  to  our 
wash-woman  is  mistaken  for  gallantry.  We  may  as  well 
put  aside  false  modesty  and  face  the  question  as  it  is. 
We  are  peculiarly  situated." 

"  We  are,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "  But  I  don't 
see  anything  very  disagreeable  in  the  peculiar  situation," 
he  added. 

"  It  is  a  fact,"  continued  Mr.  Burns,  "  that  we  seem  to 
be  preferred  by  the  ladies  of  all  classes  here  to  any  other 
two  young  men.  I  say  it  humbly,  for  it  shows  the  re- 
markably poor  status  of  society  in  this  village." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  the  young  ladies,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay.  "I  don't  know  of  a  single  mater  familias 
who  looks  upon  us  with  favor." 

"It  is  because  we're  so  poor." 

"No;  I  think  they  are  in  doubt  respecting  our  inten- 
tions. Unlike  you,  I  do  not  believe  anybody  expects  us 
to  marry.  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  our  popularity 
indicates  a  low  state  of  society  here  ?" 


HIGH  WA  TER-MARK.  1 7 

"  I  mean  there  is  a  poverty  of  society  here;  there  is  no- 
body for  the  young  ladies  to  aspire  to  but  us, — if  '  aspire' 
is  the  word, — we  get  so  ridiculously  puffed  up  by  being 
the  lions  of  a  small  country  village." 

"Yes;  you  should  have  put  it  differently,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay.  "Though,  of  course,  it  would  have  come  to 
the  same  thing,  however  delicately  worded." 

"As  to  the  deacon's  young  ladies,"  continued  Mr. 
Burns,  coming  back  to  the  point  they  had  started  from, 
"  God  grant  they  may  bestow  their  affections  more  worthily 
than  upon  us  !" 

"You  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "  that  it 
would  be  better  for  them  to  make  an  investment  that 
would  bring  them  some  returns." 

"  Burr,  for  heaven's  sake,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burns, 
flashing  round  upon  him,  "don't  treat  the  matter  so 
lightly  !  You  do  possess  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 
Why  assume  such  careless  indifference?" 

Burr  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  shall  we  do?" 
said  he.  "  Hermitize  ourselves  for  fear  of  damaging  some 
young  lady's  affections?" 

Mr.  Burns,  curbing  his  temper,  returned,  "  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you,  Burr,  that  you  have  a  manner  toward 
women — especially  toward  pretty  women — which  might 
lead  almost  any  one  of  them  to  suspect  you  admired 
her?" 

"No,"  said  Burr,  the  least  bit  ruffled;  "I  am  not 
aware  of  having  such  a  manner  and  of  employing  it  so 
promiscuously." 

"Don't  take  offence,  Burr;  it  is  possible  you  may  not 
know.  But  your  experience  must  prove  to  you  how  irre- 
sistible you  are  to  women, — God  knows,  I  don't  mean  to 
flatter  you ! — and  I  should  think  you  had  tasted  enough 
of  the  bitter  fruits  of  indiscretion." 

Mr.  Burns's  words  seemed  to  ring  up  some  memory  of 
the  past  that  was  annoying  to  his  friend. 

"  Oh,  damn  it !  Charley,  don't  preach.  What  would 
life  be  without  its  sweet  and  bitter  spices?  A  most  in- 
sipid dose  to  me.  Did  not  the  bell  ring?  It  must  be 
supper-time." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  stepped  out.     Mr.  Burns  fol- 
2* 


1 8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

lowed  him,  and  they  walked  down-street  to  the  one  hotel 
in  the  village, — a  long,  two-storied  frame  building,  com- 
modious, but  entirely  without  ornamentation. 

As  they  ascended  the  steps  up  into  the  long  porch  that 
extended  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  building  in 
front,  the  two  male  employes  of  the  establishment, 
Dick  Gibson  and  "Nigger"  Fred,  came  up  to  the  pump 
to  water  a  pair  of  tired  stage-horses,  the  driver  of  which 
sprang  down  from  his  perch  with  a  familiar  nod  and 
joke,  and  went  around  to  hand  out  a  rather  lean  mail- 
bag,  with  which  he  whipped  across  the  street  to  the  post- 
office. 

High-Water-Mark  was  off  the  main  stage-line,  and  got 
its  mail  only  twice  a  week. 

The  landlord  came  out  and  rang  the  last  supper-bell 
vigorously,  and  forthwith  there  came  pouring  in  from 
every  direction  clerks,  shoemakers,  editors,  apprentices, 
and  various  nondescript  individuals, — all  depending  on 
this  one  eating  and  drinking  institution  for  the  where- 
withal to  sustain  life. 

Mr.  Burns,  in  his  gloomy  mood,  looked  about  him, 
and  felt  it  a  sort  of  degradation  to  be  herding  with  all 
those  people, — and  ate  no  supper. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  though  fully  as  fastidious,  had  the 
happy  faculty  of  standing  aloof  anfl  ignoring  what  was 
repulsive.  He  carried  his  own  spiritual  atmosphere  with 
him.  Physically  he  was  much  more  susceptible  to  dis- 
agreeable things  than  Mr.  Burns. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK,  1 9 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  BURR,  what  do  you  say  to  changing  our  boarding- 
place?" 

They  had  got  back  to  the  office.  The  mail — not  much 
to  speak  of,  with  the  exception  of  the  newspapers — had 
been  duly  examined,  and  Mr.  Courtenay,  ensconced  in 
his  favorite  seat,  was  going  over  the  latter. 

"With  a  view  to  economize?"  he  asked,  looking  up. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "it  occurred  to  me  that  it 
would  be  better  for  us,  morally  and  socially,  to  obtain 
board  in  some  nice,  respectable  family,  where  we  could 
enjoy,  in  a  degree,  the  pleasures  and  refinements  of  a 
home.  Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  an  improvement  on 
our  present  way  of  living?" 

"It  would,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "Have 
you  thought  which  of  the  nice,  respectable  families  in 
the  place  you  would  patronize?" 

"No;  I  can't  think  of  anybody  that  could  take  us," 
Mr.  Burns  returned,  with  a  despairing  accent.  "I  have 
been  clairvoyantly  —  so  to  speak  —  prying  into  every- 
body's domesticity  in  the  village,  but  the  houses  are  all 
so  small." 

"And  as  densely  populated  as  foundling  hospitals," 
added  Burr. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  afraid  we'll  have  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  Unless  the  deacon's  folks  could  be 
prevailed  upon  to  take  us  in  ;  there  is  plenty  of  room  up 
there." 

There  was  a  levity  in  the  proposition  that  grated  upon 
Mr.  Burns  after  the  serious  conversation  of  an  hour  be- 
fore. He  got  up  and  thrust  his  letters — business  letters 
in  big,  buff  envelopes — into  a  drawer  and  walked  to  the 
window. 

Uninteresting  as  was  the  view  from  there,  the  window 
yet  had  a  sort  of  fascination  for  him,  as  though  it  were  a 
connecting  link  between  himself  and  the  great,  outside 
world  beyond  and  the  heavens  above. 


20  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

By  and  by,  Mr.  Courtenay  threw  the  papers  aside. 
"Well,  Charley,  what  about  your  poem?  Is  it  to  be  a 
little  sonnet  for  the  local  periodical?" 

"No;  it  is  to  be  of  considerable  length.  I'm  glad 
you  spoke  of  it.  I  think  I'll  begin  it  to-night,"  said  Mr. 
Burns,  turning  away  from  the  window. 

"  Have  you  got  an  inspiration?" 

"No.  I  have  got  a  volcano  in  my  head.  I  am  con- 
suming in  inactivity.  Something  must  be  done  or  there 
will  be  an  explosion." 

"So  bad  as  that?"  said  Burr.  "Well,  you  have  hit 
upon  an  excellent  safety-valve  and  a  very  harmless  one. 
Have  you  the  'gift'  of  poesy?  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw 
anything  from  your  pen  that  would  argue  your  being  en- 
dowed with  the  divine  afflatus." 

"I  had  a  faculty  for  rhyming  when  I  was  a  boy.  I 
haven't  exercised  it  since,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  Charley, — excuse  me  if  the  question  is  impertinent, 
— were  you  ever  disappointed  in  love?" 

"No;  not  in  the  way  you  mean." 

"  Pray  how  many  ways  are  there  for  a  man  to  be  dis- 
appointed in  love?"  Mr.  Courtenay  asked. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing,  Burr,  as  striving  for  a  prize  and 
finding  out  after  you  have  got  it  that  it  is  not  the  thing 
you  wanted  after  all.  It  seems  to  me  the  sort  of  disap- 
pointment you  had  in  your  mind  when  you  asked  me  that 
question  would  be  nothing  to  this." 

"  That  is  hardly  like  you,  Charley ;  it  is  more  in  accord- 
ance with  your  friend's  fickle  temperament  to  experience 
the  flavor  of  dead-sea  apples,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "  By 
the  way,"  he  added,  with  a  candor  that  was  customary 
between  them,  "it  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  have  got 
through  with  all  this  sort  of  thing  long  ago,  Charley. 
Twenty-eight — I  believe  you  tell  me  you  are  twenty-eight 
— is  rather  an  advanced  age  to  be  still  dabbling  in  poetry. 
Of  course  you  will  not  understand  me  to  imply  that  poetry 
should  be  left  to  school-boys ;  a  genius  who  gives  his  life 
to  it  is  the  most  glorious  of  men.  He  leads  the  van  in  the 
world's  progress;  he  pushes  forward  the  boundaries  of 
thought  and  emotion  and  gives  us  what  we  most  thirst  for, 
and  what  seems  to  us  a  foretaste  of  the  boundlessness  of 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  2 1 

eternity, — freedom.  And.freedom,  in  all  its  significations, 
is  the  grandest  word  in  the  language  of  men." 

"Freedom!"  reiterated  Mr.  Burns.  "Good  heavens! 
we  hardly  comprehend  it  in  any  of  its  significations.  If 
our  limbs  are  unbound  we  glory  in  our  liberty,  though 
our  souls  are  fettered  with  superstition,  our  intellect  with 
ignorance.  Society  may  rule  us,  poverty  hamper  us,  cir- 
cumstances control  us,  friends  constrain  us,  enemies  cut 
us  off,  and  still  we  prate  of  freedom.  There  is  no  such 
state  ;  it  is  only  a  word.  I  agree  with  you  a  grand  word, 
which  may  have  its  definition,  by  the  grace  of  God,  in 
the  great  hereafter,  but  never  here." 

Mr.  Courtenay  seldom  replied  to  any  of  his  friend's 
outbursts,  but  held  on  serenely  to  his  own  line  of  thinking. 
He  remarked,  after  a  little  silence,  "  How  much  we 
admire  the  man  of  superior  skill  who  hits  off  a  thought 
hanging  like  a  ripe  apple  within  our  sight,  but  just  out  of 
our  reach,  and  shares  it  with  us !  The  poet  gives  expres- 
sion not  to  his  own  idea  alone  but  to  ours.  A  test  of 
your  genius  would  be  to  waken  thoughts  and  emotions 
that  lie  dormant  in  me ;  to  strike  a  chord  in  my  nature 
that  I  myself  could  have  evolved  no  music  from.  We 
know  little  about  our  tone  and  melody  until  a  master- 
hand  plays  upon  us.  Mind,  I  don't  limit  your  genius  to 
my  capacity,  or — for  that  matter — to  the  capacity  of  any 
age  or  people.  Write  your  music  and  there  will  come,  some 
time,  an  instrument  to  give  expression  to  it.  Human 
nature  is  wonderfully  responsive  when  it  is  awakened. 
The  past  has  shown  that  there  have  been  poets  who  shot 
ahead  of  their  time  whole  centuries ;  we  have  not  come 
up  to  some  of  them  yet,  their  light  is  still  ahead,  and 
shines  back  on  our  approaching  footsteps.  Genius  is 
immortal.  It  can  wait." 

"  But  it  is  a  drudge  and  has  got  to  work  for  its  immor- 
tality," said  Mr.  Burns.  "  I  remember  reading  some- 
where that  if  Shakspeare  had  never  written  a  line  he 
would  still  have  been  the  immortal  Shakspeare ;  he 
would  have  felt  and  lived  in  himself  all  that  he  wrote. 
What  an  absurdity  !" 

"  It  agrees  with  Byron,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  and 
quoted, — 


2  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  '  Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penned 

Their  inspirations,  and,  perchance,  the  best. 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  things ;  they  compressed 
The  God  within  them,  and  rejoined  the  stars 

Unlaurel'd  upon  earth,  but  far  more  bless'd 
Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 

Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  linked  to  fame, 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars.'  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  Byron  believed  that  when  he  wrote 
it,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "It  is  effort  that  makes  men  great. 
It  is  labor  that  makes  their  greatness  effective.  It  is  fine 
to  talk  about  inspiration,  and  to  fancy  that  the  beautiful 
thoughts,  exquisitely  enfolded,  that  rain  down  upon  us 
from  the  heaven  of  great  minds,  burst  spontaneously  from 
inspired  lips.  But  I  suspect  Byron  himself  perspired 
over  the  very  lines  you  just  now  quoted.  Talk  of  soaring 
like  the  lark ;  that  is  pure  sentimentalism.  You  have  got 
to  work  like  a  slave." 

"Why,  then,  do  you  wish  to  task  yourself  so  heavily  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Courtenay,  with  mild  irony. 

"To  drain  off  a  little  native  and  accumulated  bitter- 
ness in  my  composition,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  It  seems  to  me  your  profession  might  serve  as  an  outlet 
for  that ;  there  is  something  in  vilifying  your  antagonist 
and  browbeating  witnesses,  though,  perhaps,  it  is  not  so 
safe — especially  with  reference  to  the  antagonist — as  the 
other  valve,  the  poetry." 

"Not  when  my  antagonist  is  Burr  Courtenay,"  Mr. 
Burns  retorted. 

It  had  been  twilight  in  the  office  for  some  time.  The 
fire  burning  up  a  little  threw  quivering  spots  of  light  on 
the  walls  and  on  the  floor.  But  it  was  too  dark  for  the 
young  men  to  see  each  other's  faces  except  in  dim  out- 
line. A  silence  settled  between  them,  and  the  air  seemed 
to  vibrate  with  unspoken  thoughts.  They  were  Mr. 
Burns's  thoughts.  Burr  was  only  smoking  and  dreaming ; 
perhaps  feeling  vaguely  the  pressure  of  the  charged  at- 
mosphere. Mr.  Burns  broke  the  silence: 

"Burr,  you  asked  me  if  I  were  ever  disappointed  in 
love.  As  perhaps  you  inferred,  I  have  been  in  love, — I 
suppose  I  was.  I  was  once  engaged  to  be  married." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  23 

"With  your  principles,"  returned  Mr.  Courtenay, 
"  the  one  would  of  course  precede  the  other.  Your  being 
engaged  would  argue  your  having  been  in  love." 

"Not  necessarily;  one  might  deceive  himself,"  said 
Mr.  Burns. 

"How?" 

"Fancy  himself  in  love  when  he  was  not,  really." 

"  Or  fancy  himself  not  in  love  when  he  was — really," 
said  Burr,  smiling.  "You  are  so  cautious,  so  fearful  of 
making  a  mistake,  that  you  would  be  quite  as  liable  to 
fancy  the  one  as  the  other.  You  started  out  with  great 
expectations;  you  wanted  to  get  a  great  deal  out  of  life, 
and  were  not  easily  satisfied.  You  would  spoil  the  most 
beatific  state  with  a  doubt  as  to  whether  it  were  real  and 
would  last." 

Mr.  Burns  groaned  inwardly. 

"You  looked  for  something  better  than  this  world  can 
give, — perfection.  Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice. 
If  you  want  to  believe  in  anything,  do  not  investigate, 
do  not  tear  the  veil  from  before  it.  Your  mind  is  too 
analytical ;  you  are  always  trying  to  get  at  the  reality  of 
things;  you  must  grasp  the  rainbow.  For  me,  I  like  to 
keep  the  down  on  my  peach  and  the  dew  on  my  rose.  I 
like  to  throw  the  halo  of  poetry  around  the  beautiful,  and 
stand  at  a  distance  from  the  sublime  to  admire  its  tremen- 
dous effects.  Examine  all  things  for  enjoyment,  as  you 
do  a  picture.  Put  them  in  the  best  light,  and  don't  come 
too  near." 

"  But  suppose  you  have  something  beside  enjoyment  in 
view?"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  Suppose  you  want  to  get  hold 
of  a  principle?" 

"Why,  then,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "philosophers 
would  tell  you  to  dig  deeply.  There  is  a  motive-power 
in  the  very  centre  of  things  corresponding  to  the  outward 
aspect  and  action.  A  great  man  is  a  sublime  mystery  to 
us  until  we  come  face  to  face  with  him.  That  is  the  point 
of  disenchantment.  But  if  we  stop  there  we  are  in  dan- 
ger of  a  warning  from  the  illustrious  Pope, — 

'A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing.' 

If  you  are  bound  to  investigate,  for  heaven's  sake  don't 


2  4  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

stop  until  you  have  bored  clear  through  to  the  centre. 
Anything  short  of  that  leads  to  skepticism  and  bitterness. 
You — you  did  not  refer  to  Maggie,  did  you?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "It  was  years  ago.  I  don't 
know  why,  Burr,  in  all  the  years  we  have  been  together, 
I  never  told  you." 

A  curious  smile  crossed  Burr's  face,  unseen  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  was  almost  as  cognizant  of  Mr.  Burns's  past 
history  as  of  his  own ;  though  neither,  in  all  their  long 
intercourse,  had  unfolded  himself  to  the  other. 

"  How  did  the  engagement  come  to  be  broken  off?" 
he  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  It  was  not  really  broken  off,  it  was  dropped.  I  can't 
tell  how,  or  when,  or  why  the  love  I  had — or  thought  I 
had — for  that  woman  died  out.  As  I  regarded  her  then, 
and  as  I  remember  her  now,  she  was  incomparable  among 
women, — sweet,  amiable,  talented.  I  don't  understand 
how  she  went  out  from  me.  It  all  seems  vague,  misty. 
It  was  like  the  slow,  unconscious  fading  of  a  day  into 
night.  It  was  like  my  youth  :  they  both  went  together." 

Impossible  to  tell  the  effect  of  this  remarkable  confi- 
dence upon  Mr.  Courtenay.  After  another  little  silence 
he  asked,  in  a  subdued  tone, — 

"  And  what  of  her, — the  lady?" 

"  Heaven  knows  !  She  dropped  completely  out  of  the 
current  we  had  both  been  sailing  on  so  long  together. 
I  have  never,  for  one  moment,  ceased  to  wonder,  and 
to  speculate,  and  torture  myself  about  her.  I  have 
even  tried  to  find  her,  to  satisfy  myself,  but  she  left  no 
trace." 

"  I  can't  see  that  you  are  to  blame,  Charley,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay,  gently. 

"To  blame  or  not  to  blame,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  thing 
to  reflect  that  you  may  have  destroyed  the  happiness  of  a 
life, — of  the  very  life  you  had  intended  and  pledged  your- 
self to  bless." 

Down  in  the  bottom  of  his  trunk,  carefully  wrapped  up 
and  preserved,  Mr.  Burns  had  a  portrait  and  a  bundle  of 
yellow  letters  whose  delicate  tracery  of  penmanship  had 
no  tenderer  meaning  for  him  now  than  a  parchment  roll 
of  Egyptian  hieroglyphics  would  have  had  ;  albeit,  he 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  35 

had  once  been  thrilled  to  his  heart's  centre  at  sight  of 
them.  But  that  was  long  ago,  when  his  youth  was  still 
fresh  upon  him  and  his  cheek  was  tinged  with  an  almost 
girlish  blush  as  he  unfolded  the  dainty  sheets  breathing 
the  atmosphere  of  a  tenderly  loved  presence. 

He  made  a  movement  to  get  them  for  Burr  to  see,  but 
restrained  himself.  What  right  had  he  to  hold  up  the 
trusting  heart  that  throbbed  in  them  to  Burr's  criticising 
gaze  ?  For  even  now  he  was  not  sure  of  his  friend's 
sympathetic  interest.  Still,  after  an  interval  of  silence, 
perhaps  fancying  he  had  paved  the  way  in  some  small 
degree  to  Burr's  heart,  or — for  he  was  far  enough  above 
prying  curiosity — from  whatever  motive,  possibly  without 
any  particular  motive,  he  asked,  "Burr,  were  you  ever 
really  in  love?" 

If  he  had  thought  to  get  a  sympathetic  answer  the  illu- 
sion was  dispelled. 

"  A  great  many  times,"  said  Burr,  with  a  movement  as 
if  to  throw  off  a  pressure  and  let  himself  up  into  his  usual 
light  atmosphere.  "  At  the  unripe  age  of  fifteen  I  was 
desperately  bent  on  marrying  my  preceptress,  a  lady  of 
perhaps  twice  my  years ;  but  she  discreetly  rejected  me. 
I  am  not  sure  but  the  romantic  ardor  of  that  attachment 
surpassed,  in  purity  and  intensity,  anything  I  have  ever 
experienced  since.  But  the  refusal  was  bad  for  me ;  I 
became  a  bitter  skeptic  while  yet  in  my  teens,  and  in- 
volved myself  in  no  end  of  reckless  flirtations." 

"  The  habit  has  scarcely  left  you  yet !"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
ironically. 

"  Do  you  know,  a  few  years  ago,  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  see  that  first  love  of  mine,"  Burr  continued,  "  by  step- 
ping a  little  out  of  my  way ;  but  I  should  have  closed  my 
eyes  if  she  had  passed  directly  before  me.  Not  that  any 
remnant  of  my  boyish  ardor  remained,  but  she  had  grown 
old,  they  told  me,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  see  the  ravages 
of  time  on  a  face  I  had  once  idolized, — or  idealized, — 
whichever  it  was.  As  it  stands  to-day,  I  am  not  committed 
to  any  lady." 

"Not  committed!  How  vastly  people's  ideas  differ 
about  certain  things  1"  Mr.  Burns  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  mean  yours  and  mine?" 


26  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  Yes ;  yours  and  mine.  If  I  beguiled  any  young  lady 
into  loving  me,  and  believing  I  loved  her,  I  should  feel 
myself  'wholly  committed,'  as  you  say." 

"Should  you?  And  what  would  then  be  your  course 
of  procedure  ?  For  I  fancy  that  is  about  the  state  of  Miss 
Jenkins's  mind  with  reference  to  yourself,"  said  Burr. 

The  firelight  shone  up  into  his  face,  revealing  an  ex- 
asperating glimmer  in  his  eyes.  He  took  his  cigar  from 
his  lips  and  held  it,  smoking,  between  his  fingers. 

Mr.  Burns  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

Though  in  some  respects  the  most  tender-hearted  of 
men,  and  easily  moved  to  compassion  by  physical  suffer- 
ing of  man,  brute,  or  insect,  there  were  certain  kinds  of 
worms  Burr  Courtenay  loved  to  see  wriggling  on  a  hook. 
He  not  unfrequently  impaled  his  companion. 

"I  at  first  had  the  impression,"  said  he,  "that  the 
young  lady  only  presumed  on  her  intimacy  with  you  as  a 
means  of  coquetting  with  her  lover;  but  it  seems  she 
has  serious  designs  upon  you,  and  her  father  appears 
anxious  to  further  her  claims.  It  looked  like  it,  his 
coming  in  and  laying  the  matter  open  and  putting  a  pre- 
mium upon  her,  so  to  speak,  besides  treating  you  with 
marked  affability." 

"Burr,  you  know  as  well  as  I,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  flash- 
ing up,  "  that  the  old  man  has  got  upon  the  wrong  track. 
It  is  you  who  have  turned  Sarah  Jenkins's  foolish,  senti- 
mental little  head,  not  I.  To  speak  with  unvarnished 
frankness,  I  must  say  I  cannot  imagine  the  quality  of  your 
pride  when  you  stoop  to  rivalry  with  such  fellows  as  poor, 
uncouth  Jim  Sites  !" 

His  severe  way  of  putting  the  case  was  a  little  embar- 
rassing to  his  friend. 

"  I  think  you  are  laboring  under  a  misapprehension, 
Charley,"  said  he.  "  I  do  not  conceive  that  I  have  ever 
put  myself  into  rivalry  with  Jim  Sites." 

Mr.  Burns,  unheeding  the  denial,  resumed:  "The 
Jenkinses  have  high  aspirations,  and  they  probably  think 
it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  marry  their  daughter  to  an 
attorney-at-law  !  If  it  comes  in  my  way  again  I  shall 
take  pains  to  effectually  disabuse  their  minds  of  that  im- 
pression." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  2  7 

"Don't  be  hard  upon  us,  Charley,"  said  his  friend, 
good-humoredly. 

"  I  will  lay  our  poverty  and  general  worthlessness  be- 
fore the  old  man  in  a  way  that  will  astonish  him,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Burns,  as  he  went  over  to  the  desk,  struck  a 
match,  and  lighted  a  lamp  with  a  very  murky  chimney 
and  began  taking  out  writing  materials. 

"Are  you  going  to  begin  your  poem  immediately?" 
Burr  asked. 

"Yes;  perhaps,  by  and  by,  you  will  aid  me  a  little  in 
the  way  of  comment  and  criticism  ?" 

"Gladly,"  said  Burr,  with  a  willingness  that  argued 
confidence  in  his  ability  for  the  office ;  but  added,  after 
deliberating  a  moment,  "It  occurs  to  me,  Charley,  upon 
reflection,  that  the  position  of  critic  and  commentator  is 
a  rather  difficult  one,  seeing  that  my  criticisms  and  com- 
ments are  to  be  made  to  you  and  not  behind  your  back 
to  the  world.  By  the  way,  it  strikes  me  this  is  hardly  the 
age  of  poetry ;  every  subject  I  can  think  of  has  been  ex- 
hausted. Of  poetical  themes,  take  '  Morning,'  for  in- 
stance;  it  has  been  so  abundantly  bedecked  with  'rosiness' 
and  various  gilding  and  coloring,  from  time  to  time,  that 
if  it  should  put  on  all  its  glories  at  one  sitting  it  would 
rival  the  very  shekinah.  'Evening,'  too,  with  its  gor- 
geous sunsets  and  its  tinkling  bells,  than  which  nothing 
is  more  melancholy  to  my  mind,  as  presaging  the  coming 
night;  suggesting  'The  curfew  tolls  the  knell,'  and  so 
forth.  '  Twilight'  with  its  pensive  hour, — everything,  in 
fact.  Not  a  school-boy  but  what  has  written  an  ode  to 
Spring  !  Poetical  description  is  exhausted." 

"  Hum  !  what  a  materialist  you  are  !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
"  Can  you  see  nothing  but  what  is  suggested  to  your 
senses?" 

"Well,  take  the  graces  and  the  virtues,  haven't  they  been 
satiated  with  rhythmic  laudation.  As  for  Patriotism,  does 
not  every  nation  under  the  sun'  swell  the  music  of  its  own 
anthems  ?  And  as  for  our  warriors  and  our  statesmen,  is 
there  a  single  illustrious  name  unsung?  I  contend  that  it 
is  an  exceedingly  difficult  matter  to  be  a  poet  in  this 
common-sense,  matter-of-fact  age.  The  same  spirit  of 
incredulity  and  investigation  that  has  unmasked  many  sa- 


28  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

cred  and  scientific  mysteries,  raises  its  unhallowed  hands 
and  plucks  off  the  ivy-wreaths  and  delicate  frescoes  with 
which  poetry  is  accustomed  to  bedeck  itself,  leaving  the 
naked  skeleton  of  a  fact,  a  tale,  or  a  moral.  No  matter 
how  beautiful  or  exquisite  the  shell,  crack  it,  get  at  the 
kernel.  No  man  has  time  to  loiter  among  ancient  ruins, 
or  beside  pearly  streams  looking  for  stray  gems.  Every 
sentence  that  is  spoken  on  the  rostrum,  in  the  pulpit,  has 
got  to  be  pithy,  no  mere  flowers  of  rhetoric ;  indeed, 
rhetoric  has  little  place  with  us, — the  plainest,  most  con- 
cise dress  a  thought  can  wear  is  the  best.  A  dash  of  wit, 
a  spark  of  brilliancy,  a  glare  of  humor  may  flash  along 
the  page,  or  the  sermon,  or  the  oration,  but  it  must  be  of 
the  keenest,  and  brightest,  and,  I  might  add,  briefest. 
We  must  wait  until  the  great  geniuses  of  the  past  have 
been  sifted  like  sand  upon  the  public  mind  and  earth  is 
mellowed  with  their  ashes." 

"  Let  me  ask,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "  if  you  consider  that 
Homer,  Pope,  Dryden,  and  all  those  ancients  had  been 
so  disseminated  before — say  Shakspeare's  era,  or  Byron's 
and  Tom  Moore's?" 

"Certainly;  and  the  latter  were  born  of  their  ashes; 
they  were  woven  into  the  every-day  lives  of  millions,  just 
as  their  contemporary  philosophers  and  sages  were  woven 
into  the  scientific  life.  Why,  let  any  one  who  has  never 
studied  the  classics  turn  to  those  old  bards,  and  he  will  be 
astonished  to  find  himself  almost  as  familiar  with  them  as 
with  his  own  thoughts.  He  might — in  ignorance  of  their 
antiquity — even  accuse  them  of  plagiarizing  some  of  our 
modern  writers.  Every  sentence  (at  least  every  sentiment) 
has  been  made  a  text  of,  disguised,  diluted,  clothed  in  a 
thousand  different  forms  to  mingle  with  our  common  lit- 
erature. There  is  but  little  originality  afloat  nowadays, 
Charley ;  the  most  that  we  get  comes  to  us  with  the  familiar 
odor  of  well-known  flowers,  hidden  out  of  sight,  it  may 
be,  in  a  gorgeous  bouquet  of  words,  but  still  perceptible 
to  a  cultivated  mind.  Strange  that  the  fragrance  of  an 
inspiration  should  be  everlasting  !  There  is  a  species  of 
immortality  sweeter  than  that  attained  by  the  celebrated 
Count*  Frangipanni." 

"  How  is  it  to  be  attained  by  us  poor  mortals  of  the 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


29 


present  century,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "  if  we  are  to  fold  our 
hands  and  wait  until  the  world  has  absorbed  Shakspeare 
and  nothing  is  left  of  Milton  but  a  scented  zephyr?  I  do 
not  believe  we  are  merely  to  wait  for  the  uprising  of  the 
Phoenix,  we  are  to  work  for  it.  We  must  help  on  toward 
the  new  era.  No  man  lives  for  himself;  in  one  sense  no 
man  is  an  individual,  an  integer,  but  a  fraction  of  one 
stupendous  whole." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "  Take  our  oft- 
quoted  Shakspeare.  Ah  !  Shakspeare  is  a  part  of  the 
universe, — the  voice  of  it.  My  faith  in  him  is  pantheistic. 
If  I  were  a  spiritualist  I  would  deny  that  William  of  Strat- 
ford was  a  mere  man,  and  affirm  that  he  was  the  writing- 
medium  of  all  humanity." 

"Spare  him  your  eulogies,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  turning 
again  to  his  desk;  "he  doesn't  need  them.  There  he 
stands,  as  Webster  said  of  Massachusetts,  he  speaks  for 
himself." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  write,"  Mr.  Courtenay  remarked, 
"  perhaps  I  had  better  take  a  stroll  and  leave  you  to  your 
inspiration." 

"You  will  not  be  any  constraint  upon  me,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Burns. 

"Nevertheless  I  think  I'll  step  out,"  Mr.  Courtenay 
persisted,  and  got  up  and  lighted  another  lamp  with  a 
murky  chimney,  and  went  into  a  back-room.  When  he 
reappeared,  gloved  and  equipped,  Mr.  Burns  sat  at  the 
desk  with  a  sheet  of  legal-cap  spread  out  before  him, 
poising  his  pen  above  it  and  contracting  his  eyebrows. 
His  hair,  light  and  curling,  was  brushed  carelessly  back 
from  his  forehead.  His  eyes  were  exceedingly  bright, 
unsatisfied,  and  melancholy.  It  seemed  as  if  the  fire  in 
them  had  consumed  his  youth  and  drunk  up  his  youthful 
blood.  His  high,  straight  nose,  slightly-curved  lips,  and 
pale  complexion  were  responsible  for  a  certain  aristo- 
cratic air  he  had.  In  build  he  was  nearly  as  tall  and 
quite  as  symmetrical,  but  slighter,  than  his  friend.  The 
two  contrasted  strikingly  in  many  ways.  Mr.  Courtenay 
showed  a  fulness  of  health  and  strength  and  physical 
beauty ;  Mr.  Burns  not  a  lack,  but  an  absence  of  it,  as 
though  it  had  been, — as  though  it  might  be  again.  He 


3o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

was  young ;  he  was  not  broken,  or  wrecked,  or  decayed  ; 
only  empty  of  the  zest  of  living.  His  life  might  be  re- 
filled like  a  goblet  whose  wine  has  been  spilled.  Burr, 
though  some  years  his  senior  (he  did  not  know  just  how 
many),  was  still  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  champagne,  and 
still  believed  in  its  sparkling  bubbles  ;  he  suffered  no  cloud 
to  hang  over  his  spirit.  "Well,  good-night,  Charley; 
may  the  muse  inspire  you  !"  he  said,  with  a  just  percept- 
ible elation  of  spirits,  as  he  strode  across  the  office  to  the 
door. 

Mr.  Burns  responded  moodily  and  without  raising  his 
eyes.  Burr  went  out.  When  the  door  closed  upon  him, 
Mr.  Burns  got  up,  threw  a  picturesque  blue  cloak  around 
him,  took  his  hat  and  also  went  out.  The  night  was 
dark,  full  of  clouds  and  chilliness.  Mr.  Burns  stopped 
and  listened.  He  could  hear  Burr's  footfalls  on  the 
frozen  ground  a  short  distance  up  the  street,  and  he  fol- 
lowed him. 

"It's  a  mean,  sneaking  thing  to  do,"  he  muttered, 
"  track  him  as  if  he  were  a  thief,  but  I  want  to  make 
sure  whether  he  goes  there.  That  will  be  a  bad  piece  of 
business  yet." 

On  they  went,  the  one  behind  the  other,  until  they 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  upon  which  stood  the 
proudest  mansion  in  the  village.  It  was  Deacon  Clyde's. 
Mr.  Courtenay  opened  the  gate,  walked  up  to  the  front 
door,  and  rang  the  bell. 

Mr.  Burns,  in  the  shadow  of  the  fence  and  some 
shrubbery,  observed  through  the  low,  lace-curtained  win- 
dows of  the  parlor  two  young  ladies  sitting,  one  on 
either  side  of  a  small,  oblong  table,  with  a  lamp  upon  it 
dangling  with  prismatic  pendants.  No  other  house  in 
High-Water-Mark  afforded  so  many  luxuries  and  elegan- 
cies as  Deacon  Clyde's.  The  young  ladies,  Mr.  Burns 
observed,  were  busy  with  some  sort  oif  fancy-work. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall-door  was  a  window 
half  uncovered,  revealing  a  scene  similar  to  the  parlor 
scene,  except  that  it  was  an  elderly  couple — Deacon  Clyde 
and  his  wife — who  occupied  respective  seats  at  a  small 
table  with  a  lamp  upon  it. 

The  deacon  had  a  newspaper  in  his  hands,  and  appeared 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  3 1 

to  be  reading  aloud  ;  for  now  and  then  he  raised  his  eyes, 
and  his  wife  glanced  up  from  her  knitting,  and  they  smiled 
and  nodded  at  each  other  over  their  spectacles.  When 
the  door-bell  rang  the  deacon  dropped  his  paper  upon  his 
knees,  Mrs.  Clyde  suspended  her  knitting,  and  they  both 
listened,  then  smiled  and  nodded,  and  resumed  their  quiet 
occupations. 

The  young  ladies,  meantime,  exchanged  glances,  and 
then  the  taller  one  arose,  and  went  out  and  opened  the 
door.  The  light  of  the  hall-lamp  flashed  in  her  face,  re- 
vealing a  pink  flush  blended  with  an  ill-disguised,  glad 
recognition,  though  she  preserved  a  marked  and  quite 
charming  dignity  of  manner. 

The  face  in  the  parlor  had  an  eager,  expectant  look, 
which  Mr.  Burns  fancied  changed  to  disappointment  when 
Miss  Clyde  re-entered  with  Burr  and  closed  the  door, 
showing  that  he  came  alone. 

"  Poor  little  Maggie  !"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  and  turned 
and  went  back  to  the  office,  resumed  his  seat  and  his  pen, 
and  began  his  poem. 


CHAPTER  III, 

"  BURR,  are  you  awake?" 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  Mr.  Courtenay  had  come  in 
and  gone  to  bed.  But  he  instantly  reported  himself  awake, 
and  Mr.  Burns  took  up  the  lamp  and  his  manuscript  and 
stepped  into  the  back-room.  He  put  the  lamp  down  upon 
the  wash-stand — splashed  with  soapsuds  and  loaded  with 
toilet-utensils — and  seated  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
His  hair  was  rumpled,  and  had  a  pen  thrust  into  it  above 
his  ear.  His  face  was  pale  from  excessive  mental  effort, 

Mr.  Courtenay's  eyes  had  the  appearance  of  being 
forcibly  kept  open.  He  professed  deep  interest  in  the 
poem,  however,  and  Mr,  Burns,  began,  with  an  easy,  swing- 
ing rhythm,-^ 


3  2  JJIGff-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  Anon,  at  th'  portal  of  life's  pearly  gate, 
Youths  and  maidens  in  expectancy  wait ; 
And  a  rosy  curtain  is  drawn  aside. 
And  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  silver  tide, — 
(That  is  brighter  than  any  stream  that  flows !) — 
Upon  its  banks  in  luxuriance  grows 
The  floweret  that  lovers  love  so  well ! 
It  has  such  a  tender  legend  to  tell." 

Mr.  Courtenay  interrupted  to  ask,  "  You  don't  wish  me 
to  'scan*  it,  d,o  you?  The  mechanical  part  is  all  right, 
I  suppose " 

"I  care  very  little  about  the  mechanical  part,"  said 
Burns;  "  leave  that  to  school-boys." 

"Aha!  I  like  your  independence,"  said  Burr,  "but 
they  tell  us  that  the  highest  freedom  is  in  keeping  the 
law.  You  must  put  your  own  will  into  harmony  with  the 
Superior  Will." 

"  What  has  the  Superior  Will  to  do  with  my  rhymes?" 
Mr.  Burns  exclaimed. 

"Everything.  The  smallest  thing  you  do  is  measured 
by  a  fixed  and  immutable  principle.  You  are  imperfect, 
inasmuch  as  you  fall  short  of  the  measure.  There  are  a 
good  many  principles  even  in  rhyming;  there  is.  meter, 
for  instance." 

"I  shall  not  be  at  very  great  pains  to  oblige  meter," 
said  Mr.  Burns.  "  I  am  after  the  soul  of  poetry,  not  the 
body." 

"Then  you  limit  me  in  my  office  of  critic  and  com- 
mentator," said  Burr,  patiently.  "But  no  matter,  so 
that  we  understand  each  other." 


1  And  when  lovers  part,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
Believing  each  other  divinely  true, 
It  is  meet  to  exchange  a  token  then, 
A  souvenir  until  they  meet  again  ; 
She  gives  him  a  lock  of  her  silken  hair, 
Which  he  puts  near  his  heart  and  keeps  it  there ; 
And  he — though  assured  of  his  happy  lot — 
He  clasps  in  her  hand  a  forget-me-not. 


'  Now  the  impulse  to  leave  a  voice  behind 
To  keep  his  mem'ry  in  the  loved  one's  mind, 
(And  perhaps,  too,  to  keep  intruders  out), 
Shows  distrust ;  or,  at  least,  implies  a  doubt. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  33 

She  loves  and  believes,  and  has  ne'er  a  thought 

That  the  beautiful  dream  may  come  to  naught ; 

She  recks  not  the  months,  nor  the  years,  I  ween, 

All  the  changeful  years  that  may  intervene. 

For  if  change  should  come,  why, — confident  elf! — 

The  change,  of  course,  could  but  be  in  herself. 

And  here  is  a  text  that's  true  to  the  letter: 

A  change  in  oneself  is  a  change  for  the  better." 

Mr.  Courtenay  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  "  My  ex- 
perience goes  to  show  that  woman  is  constant,"  said  he. 
"  If  anything,  too  constant." 

"  Your  experience  differs  from  that  of  most  men,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  dryly. 

"  Not  from  your  own,  I  think,"  said  Burr. 

Mr.  Burns  read  on, — 

"  If  harm  ever  comes  to  the  sweet  love-plan, 
The  fault,  you  must  know,  is  not  in  the  man ; 
It  is  she,  it  is  she,  the  fickle  and  fair, 
Who  gave  him  a  lock  of  her  beautiful  hair ; 
And  who  has  in  a  casket,  unforgot, 
A  faded  and  scentless  forget-me-not. 

"The  life  of  that  flower  is  frail  and  brief, 

But  so  long  as  a  crumpled,  withered  leaf 
»    Remains,  still  to  chant  its  sad,  sweet  refrain, 
•    Its  tender  plea  is  not  made  in  vain. 

She  may  break  her  vow,  and  may  prove  untrue, — 

It  is  what  the  world  expects  her  to  do  ! 

'Tis  her  privilege,  too, — you  cannot  ignore  it, — 

And  society  gives  her  license  for  it." 

Mr.  Burns  paused  to  take  up  another  sheet,  and  Mr. 
Courtenay  started  as  though  he  had  forgotten  himself  and 
what  was  required  of  him. 

"It's  a — a  pastoral,  isn't  it,  Charley?"  he  asked. 

"A  pastoral !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  as  critic  and  commentator,  was  a  little 
crestfallen  at  having  made  the  mistake. 

"Ah!  I  thought  it  might  be  a  pastoral, — from  the 
forget-me-nots, — or  a — a  lyric?" 

Unheeding  the  last  venture,  Mr.  Burns  read  on.  At  the 
next  pause  Mr.  Courtenay  said,  in  somewhat  languid  tones, 
"It  has  a  very  dulcet  rhythm,  Charley,  glides  along  like 
a — a — like  a  midsummer  night's  dream." 

The  comparison  was  so  soothingly  suggestive  that  the 

B* 


34 


HIGH-  IV A  TER-MARK. 


lids  drooped  over  his  eyes,  and  he  felt  an  exquisite  temp- 
tation to  drift  off  into  the  land  of  sleep  and  visions. 

"Are  you  getting  sleepy?"  Mr.  Burns  asked,  a  little 
suspiciously. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Burr,  opening  his  eyes  and  staring 
resolutely.  But  he  was  drowsy  to  his  finger-tips.  "The 
light  shines  in  my  eyes,"  he  explained,  winking  them 
pretty  fast.  "I  believe  my  eyes  are  a  little  weak  of 
late." 

"I'll  drop  the  shade  over  the  lamp,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
He  did  so,  and  then  resumed  the  poem.  A  gentle  snore 
arrested  him,  and  he  stopped  and  leaned  over  and  peered 
into  Burr's  face,  and  a  look  of  profound  disgust  curled  his 
lip.  He  gathered  up  his  papers,  and  took  the  lamp  and 
went  back  into  the  office,  looked  at  his  watch,  crammed 
the  manuscript  into  the  desk,  and  went  to  bed  himself. 
As  he  crawled  in  behind  Burr,  that  excellent  commentator 
muttered,  "Verysoo — soothing,  Charley;  seems  like  a — 
a — seems — like — a — d-r-e-a-m." 

Mr.  Burns  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  with  the  feel- 
ing that  one  need  never  expect  perfect  sympathy  in  this 
world.  In  a  little  while  he  had  gathered  up  his  internal 
forces  and  resolved  upon  a  philosophical  self-dependence. 

Meantime,  the  young  ladies  in  the  house  on  the  hill, — 
neither  of  whom  was  the  deacon's  daughter,  the  elder, 
Evelyn  Clyde,  being  his  orphan  niece,  and  the  younger, 
Maggie  Atherton,  being  his  wife's  orphan  niece, — after 
bidding  Mr.  Courtenay  "good-evening,"  an  hour  or  so 
after  that  witching  period  of  time  is  supposed  by  the 
vulgar  world  to  merge  into  night,  blew  out  the  parlor-  and 
hall-lamps  (for  the  rest  of  the  household  had  long  been 
asleep),  and  tiptoed  up-stairs,  lighted  by  the  moon.  For 
the  wind  had  swept  the  clouds  aside,  and  the  moon  and 
stars  were  throwing  their  soft  light  in  at  the  windows. 

"What  a  lovely  evening!"  Evelyn  exclaimed,  still 
laboring  under  the  delusion  that  the  hour  was  not  far 
advanced.  She  knelt  by  the  window  and  drew  aside  the 
white  curtain, — not  to  admire  the  night,  that  was  an  in- 
nocent little  deception,  but  to  watch  the  tall  form  glid- 
ing away  through  the  still,  white  light,  and  to  listen  to 
his  firm  foot-falls  on  the  frozen  ground.  Oh,  beautiful 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


35 


moon,  beautiful  stars!  can  they  make  hearts  so  happy? 
or  does  the  happy  heart  make  night  so  beautiful? 

He  is  gone.  Out  of  sight,  Out  of  sound.  And  the 
night,  and  the  light,  and  the  stillness  are  left  alone ;  ex- 
cept the  soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  tall  poplars  stuck,  at 
intervals,  all  around  the  deacon's  premises. 

Maggie  has  nothing  for  which  to  thank  the  night  and 
the  moon,  and  so  she  lights  the  lamp  on  the  dressing-table 
and  tucks  her  brown  curls  into  a  night-cap,  and  proceeds, 
sadly  and  in  a  quiet,  matter-of-fact  way,  to  get  ready  for 
bed.  She  kneels  at  the  bedside  and  breathes  an  habitual 
prayer;  and  still  Evelyn  kneels  at  the  window  and  breathes 
a  different  prayer,  with  more  heart  in  it. 

"Evelyn,"  Maggie  calls  from  the  white  pillow  on 
which  she  has  lain  her  pink,  sorrowful  cheek. 

"What,  dear?"  Evelyn  springs  up,  and  comes  and 
stoops  down  and  kisses  her,  rather  in  the  exuberance  of 
her  own  happiness  and  triumph  than  of  affection  for 
Maggie.  Though  she  is  fond  of  Maggie  in  her  way, 
which  is  rather  a  proud  and  imperious  way. 

"  Did  you  want  anything?" 

"No;  but  it's  late,"  said  Maggie,  and  shut  her  eyes, 
for  there  were  tears  in  them,  which  she  did  not  care  to 
have  Evelyn  see. 

So  Evelyn  turns  away  and  goes  to  the  dressing-table, 
and  takes  down  and  brushes  her  long,  beautiful  hair,  feel- 
ing a  vague  thankfulness  for  her  own  beauty  mirrored  in 
the  glass  before  her.  Her  heart  beats,  and  her  cheeks 
burn,  and  her  eyes  are  more  blue  and  intense  in  their 
brightness  than  the  sapphire  drops  depending  from  her 
delicate  ears. 

She  is  beautiful,  and  very  queenly  in  figure  and  bear- 
ing ;  wonderfully  so  to-night,  Maggie  thinks,  watching 
her  furtively  and  half  envying  her. 

Though  Maggie's  faith  in  Mr.  Courtenay  was  not  so 
great  as  Evelyn's.  She  doubted  the  sincerity  of  his  pol- 
ished and  courteous  attentions.  Sometimes  she  wanted 
to  say  as  much,  but  Evelyn  was  too  proud,  and  cold,  and 
unapproachable  on  such  subjects  for  her  to  venture. 

Mr.  Burns  she  knew  to  be  the  soul  of  truth.  She 
could  believe  in  every  word  and  act  of  his.  But,  alas  ! 


36  HIGH-  WA  TER-  MA  RK. 

his  words  and  acts  in  the  direction  of  love-making  to 
herself  had  been  so  few.  She  had  weighed  them  all,  and 
they  were  hardly  sufficient  to  balance  the  smallest  hope 
that  he  might  care  for  her. 

To-night  she  made  a  resolution  founded  on  the  con- 
viction that  he  certainly  did  not  care  for  her, — and 
clinched  her  plump  hands  in  token  of  its  fixedness, — that 
she  would  never,  never  think  of  him  again  1  And  went 
to  sleep  with  two  bright  tears  tracking  a  pathway  down 
her  round,  rosy  cheeks. 

The  deacon  and  his  wife  had  sat  up  a  little  later  than 
usual,  hoping  the  parlor  visitor  would  depart,  and  leave 
the  young  ladies  at  liberty  to  come  out  and  attend  to  the 
evening  devotions, — a  ceremony  in  which  the  young  la- 
dies took  no  very  active  interest.  At  last  the  deacon 
arose,  and  put  away  his  newspaper,  and  Mrs.  Clyde 
wound  up  her  yarn  and  stuck  the  needles  in  the  ball  and 
put  it  away,  and  then  pushed  the  lamp-stand  a  little 
nearer  the  deacon's  arm-chair  and  laid  thereon  the 
family  Bible.  The  deacon  crossed  over  to  poke  the  fire, 
and  wondered  if  the  girls  wouldn't  soon  be  out. 

"Better  not  wait  for  'em,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde. 
They  called  each  other  "father"  and  "mother"  still, 
though  there  were  none  left  of  five  children  who  had 
called  them  so,  and  who  were  all  lying  asleep  in  various 
places  in  the  green  earth,  with  white  slabs  above  them. 
Two  in  a  peaceful  cemetery,  hundreds  of  miles  away,  and 
three  on  a  battle-field,  where  the  grass  grew  rank  above 
them,  being  fed  with  blood.  "  They  do  sit  up  so  late 
when  them  young  men  come  up  from  town,"  Mrs.  Clyde 
continued,  in  a  not  displeased  tone,  being  secretly  proud 
of  the  distinction  conferred  on  her  girls  by  the  attentions 
of  the  talented  young  men,  but  never  compromising  her 
matronly  dignity  by  appearing  to  consider  it  a  distinction. 
She  was  far  too  proud  and  too  discreet  for  that. 

"Yes,  &leetle  too  late,"  the  deacon  responded,  readily. 

"  Oh,  well,  young  folks  is  young  folks,  they  must  have 
their  day,"  said  Mrs.  Clyde,  defensively.  She  might 
have  added  that  they  must  also  have  their  way,  some- 
times. Maggie  was  very  docile  and  obedient,  but  was 
inclined  to  follow  Evelyn's  example.  And  Evelyn  brooked 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


37 


little  constraint.  Though  she  never  did  anything  more 
flagrant  than  staying  home  from  church  and  absenting 
herself  from  prayers  when  she  chose  (some  unguarded  ex- 
pressions of  Mr.  Courtenay's  having  led  her  to  regard 
religion  as  old-fogyish, — and  in  which  Mr.  Courtenay 
was  culpable,  inasmuch  as  he  took  away  from  her  a  faith 
which  she  had  leaned  upon  in  an  unquestioning,  child's 
way,  and  gave  her  nothing  in  return, — a  kind  of  swin- 
dling somewhat  extensively  practised  in  this  land,  though 
perhaps  the  perpetrators  vindicate  themselves  by  declar- 
ing their  victims  incapable  of  receiving  what  they  would 
give).  Miss  Clyde  also  reserved  to  herself  the  right  of 
going  where  she  pleased,  doing  what  she  liked,  and  ac- 
cepting attentions  from  gentlemen  at  her  own  discretion. 
In  point  of  propriety  there  is  no  doubt  Miss  Clyde  was 
perfectly  competent  to  guide  herself  aright,  owing  to  an 
inherent  dignity  of  character  that  underlay  all  her  motives 
and  actions. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  Sunday  following  Mr.  Courtenay's  visit  at  the 
deacon's  he  proposed  to  Mr.  Burns  that  they  should  at- 
tend church  in  the  evening,  adding  that  it  was  quarterly 
meeting,  and  the  presiding  elder  would  preach. 

"  Do  you  hold  that  out  as  an  inducement?"  Mr.  Burns 
asked. 

"  I  thought  it  might  have  some  weight,"  said  Burr. 

"Well,  you  are  mistaken  ;  it  has  none  whatever.  The 
one  item  of  Methodism  I  object  to  is  the  presiding  elder. 
That  is,  I  am  passive  in  regard  to  the  other  items,  but  I 
am  actively  opposed  to  that.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  that  high  dignitary  was  chosen  with  as  much  reference 
to  his  physical  endowments  as  to  his  spiritual  and  intel- 
lectual." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "it  is  true  there  are 
some  fine-looking  men  in  that  body  of  divines;  but  why 

4 


38  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

a  man  should  be  objected  to,  even  for  a  sacred  office,  on 
account  of  a  good  corporeal  development,  is  not  plain  to 
me." 

"  His  corporeal  development  is  not  a  thing  to  be  con- 
sidered in  the  question  of  a  man's  fitness  for  a  sacred 
office,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  Do  you  know,  Charles,  that  the  kings  of  Israel  were 
chosen  on  that  same  ground  to  which  you  object?" 

"The  kings  of  Israel  are  swept  off  the  boards;  the 
world  is  done  with  them.  They  symbolized  the  highest 
idea  of  the  people,  no  doubt,  in  their  day ;  but  now  we 
don't  care  for  the  outside  of  a  man,  we  are  after  what  is 
in  him." 

"  Waiving  that,"  said  Burr,  "  shall  we  go?  It  is  time 
to  be  thinking  of  it,  if  we  do." 

After  a  moment's  deliberation,  Mr.  Burns  arose  and 
went  into  the  back-room  and  got  himself  ready.  When 
they  were  about  stepping  out,  Mr.  Courtenay  remarked, 
carelessly,  "I  thought  perhaps  we  had  better  escort  the 
young  ladies  to  church  this  evening." 

"If  that  is  your  intention  you  must  excuse  me,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  and  turned  and  threw  his  gloves  upon  the 
table  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  Charley,  what  is  the  matter?  What  has  come  over 
you  of  late?"  said  Burr. 

"  Old  memories." 

"Damn  old  memories!"  Burr  exclaimed  with  sudden 
fierceness,  as  though  he  had  them  under  his  heel. 

Mr.  Burns  looked  up  sharply,  as  though  it  might  be 
possible  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  friend's  inner  conscious- 
ness at  this  moment  through  the  crevice  made  by  his  sud- 
den outburst. 

But  the  flash  of  Burr's  temper  was  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning in  pitch  darkness. 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  then  said,  a  little  sadly,  "There  is 
comfort  to  me  in  this,  Charley;  whatever  we  get,  in  this 
life,  is  probably  the  right  thing.  Or  whether  it  is  or  not, 
we  don't  seem  to  have  the  sole  ordering  of  our  affairs.  If 
we  did,  very  few  of  us  would  be  just  where  we  are.  How- 
ever different  our  life  might  have  been  from  what  it  has 
been,  we  should  doubtless  have  old  memories  and  regrets 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


39 


and  remorse  all  the  same.  Then  why  not  make  the  best 
of  what  is,  and  '  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead'  ?" 

"If  one  could  !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"But  even  then  I  don't  know  as  one  should.  There 
are  some  errors  and  mistakes  we  ought  to  suffer  for." 

"  Deliberate  errors  and  mistakes,"  said  Burr;  "I  admit 
one  ought  to  be  punished  for  intentional  wrong-doing." 

"  There  wouldn't  be  much  wrong-doing  if  all  the  wrong 
done  were  deliberately  planned  beforehand,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "  Not  half  the  evil  in  the  world  results  from  cold- 
blooded intention." 

"Well,  however  that  may  be,"  said  Burr,  "take  up 
your  gloves  and  come  on.  I  will  vouch  for  it  that  Miss 
Maggie  is  not  going  to  break  her  stout  little  heart  for  you. 
Don't  flatter  yourself  so  much.  You  are  getting  morbid 
on  this  subject." 

Mr.  Burns  got  up.     "  Maybe  you  are  right,"  said  he. 

A  few  minutes  later,  passing  up  the  street  on  their  way 
to  the  deacon's,  they  observed  the  resident  clergyman  of 
the  Methodist  order  striding  across  to  the  place  of  wor- 
ship to  make  sure  that  the  lights  and  the  fires  were  in 
proper  trim  ;  fearing — possibly  from  some  previous  negli- 
gence— that  the  employe  in  the  light  and  fire  line  was 
not  to  be  implicitly  relied  upon. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  a  sympathetic 
shrug,  "  he  looks  blue  and  chilly  in  his  threadbare  broad- 
cloth." 

"  Not  to  speak  of  his  ungloved  hands,"  said  Burr,  who 
had  a  horror  of  numb  fingers.  "  By  the  way,"  he  asked, 
"  is  black  broadcloth  a  church  ordinance  ?" 

"I  believe  it  has  always  been  the  canonical  costume 
for  orthodox  clergymen,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "but  perhaps 
modern  civilization  will  justify  its  being  grown  out  of 
shortly." 

The  minister  bowed  clerically,  that  is  to  say,  gravely, 
for  it  was  Sabbath  evening ;  and  besides,  the  young  attor- 
neys were  of  doubtful  piety  according  to  his  reckoning, 
and  it  behooves  a  minister  of  the  gospel  to  preserve  the 
church  dignity  in  his  own  person  in  presence  of  the 
worldly-minded. 

They,  on  their  part,  gave  the  graceful  military  salute 


40  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

habitual  with  them,  though  perhaps  with  an  accent  of 
mock  deference,  and  passed  on  with  their  rapid,  even 
strides. 

"  Who  would  be  a  fanatic  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burns.  "  I 
would  rather  be  bereft  of  one  of  my  five  senses  than  have 
any  part  of  my  brain  overcast  or  any  faculty  of  my  mind 
shackled." 

"  I  venture  to  say  that  the  fanatics  have  done  more  to 
push  things  forward  in  this  world  than  the  philosophers," 
said  Burr.  "  Give  one  of  them  an  idea, — they  are  essen- 
tially one-idea  men, — and  see  how  he  will  drive  ahead 
with  it.  They  are  the  working-men.  If  not  exactly  at 
the  head  of  affairs,  they  are  the  tools  that  cooler  and  wiser 
men  use  in  adjusting  them.  Fanaticism  has  been  one  of 
the  boldest,  most  persistent,  indefatigable,  devoted,  self- 
sacrificing  powers  ever  set  in  motion  upon  the  earth.  It 
is  like  steam  :  all  you  have  got  to  do  is  to  get  a  steady- 
handed,  clear-headed  engineer  to  keep  it  going  in  the 
right  direction.  The  philosopher  sees  all  sides,  his  mind 
is  a  world  of  light ;  the  fanatic's  is  but  fractionally  illu- 
minated, but  the  darkened  half  is  an  added  power  pro- 
pelling the  one  bright  idea.  Philosophy  brings  out  all 
things ;  fanaticism  throws  out  its  head-light  and  shows  us 
but  one.  In  other  words,  it  is  concentration." 

"  I  would  rather  not  concentrate,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with 
a  shrug. 

"Fanaticism  is  apparently  more  consistent  than  philos- 
ophy," Burr  continued. 

"  Consistent !  I  used  to  order  my  life  by  that  word," 
Mr.  Burns  interrupted.  "But  I  have  repudiated  it;  it  is 
treacherous  and  tyrannical.  If  you  lay  yourself  out  to  be 
consistent,  every  step  you  take  is  a  stake  set  up  marking 
your  boundaries;  you  will  soon  be  completely  hedged  in. 
You  make  to-day  the  governor  of  to-morrow,  and  so  on 
until  you  have  narrowed  your  life  down  to  the  smallest 
compass.  Of  all  things  in  the  world  I  hate  constraint, 
self-imposed  or  imposed  by  others." 

"  You  are  controlled  by  it  more  than  any  other  man  I 
know,"  said  Burr,  coolly. 

"  No ;  you  mistake.  Conscientiousness  is  not  con- 
straint. I  hate  a  rule,  but  I  believe  in  the  law.  No 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  41 

man  shall  handcuff  me  with  his  opinions ;  '  I'll  not  endure 
it.'" 

"  Regarding  this  idea  of  consistency,"  said  Burr.  "  It 
is  not  necessary  to  carry  it  up  into  psychology ;  we  are 
not  governed  by  precedent  in  ethics  as  we  are  in  logic." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  deacon's  door  and  rung  the 
bell.  Bridget  appeared,  smiling  all  over  her  comely, 
Irish  face,  and  ushered  them  into  the  parlor,  which  was 
vacant.  The  young  ladies,  she  said,  were  up-stairs  getting 
ready  for  church. 

"  Will  you  please  say  to  the  young  ladies  that  Mr. 
Courtenay  and  myself  wish  to  accompany  them  to 
church?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  an  assurance  that  Burr 
chided  him  for  when  the  girl's  back  was  turned. 

"What's  the  use  mincing  the  thing?  -they  won't  re- 
fuse," said  he,  moving  about  and  examining  the  pictures 
on  the  walls. 

"You  might  have  put  it  more  courteously,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay. 

The  prismatic  lamp  was  burning  on  the  marble-topped 
centre-table,  and  a  comfortable  fire  glowed  in  the  pol- 
ished wood-stove.  The  room  was  very  pretty,  and  had  a 
cosy,  delightful  air  that  young  ladies  of  taste  can  give  to 
a  pretty  room.  And  these  were  young  ladies  of  taste, 
though  perhaps  not  much  beside.  They  were  very  well 
bred  and  moderately  educated,  having  spent  a  few  terms 
at  an  academy  before  coming  West.  They  had  accom- 
plished but  little  in  music.  Miss  Clyde  played  a  few  set 
pieces,  but  never  descended  to  jigs  and  hornpipes.  And 
Maggie,  being  of  a  housewifely  turn,  was  given  to  chir- 
ruping little  snatches  of  old-fashioned  song  while  going 
about  her  work  in  dining-room  and  kitchen,  and  seldom 
touched  the  piano,  so  that  that  beautiful  instrument  was 
rather  an  uninteresting  piece  of  furniture  in  the  deacon's 
parlor,  being  held  in  about  the  same  respect  as  the  tables 
and  chairs.  The  young  ladies  were  unacquainted  with 
its  wonderful  resources,  and  the  poor,  cumbersome  thing 
passed  unappreciated,  like  many  another  poor  thing  that 
is  pulsing  with  unheard  music. 

Mr.  Courtenay  seated  himself  luxuriously  in  a  stuffed 
rocking-chair,  and  Mr.  Burns,  who  had  a  sort  of  in- 


42  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

stinctive,  tender  sympathy  with  all  musical  instruments, 
though  he  had  never  cultivated  their  acquaintance  much, 
sat  down  to  the  piano  and  began  playing  softly,  "  Those 
Evening  Bells." 

He  was  still  drawing  forth  his  little  melody  with  a 
delicate  and  dreamy  touch,  when  the"  young  ladies'  steps 
came  lightly  down  the  stairs.  The  door  opened,  and 
there  was  a  rustling  of  silk,  and  the  room  was  flooded 
with  a  faint  perfume — and  a  presence.  The  latter  be- 
longed to  Miss  Clyde.  Burr  felt  its  magnetism,  and 
towered  up  grandly  from  the  rocking-chair. 

There  was,  of  course,  a  general  recognition  all  round, 
but  these  two  instantly  absorbed  each  other. 

Maggie,  a  little  pale  and  tremulous,  followed  in  Miss 
Clyde's  wake,  and  Mr.  Burns's  eyes,  as  he  turned  around 
upon  the  piano-stool  and  stood  up,  sought  her  face. 

Some  eyes  always  have  an  earnest  look  whether  they 
mean  it  or  not,  and  whether  from  depth  of  soul  or  depth 
of  color.  Mr.  Burns  had  such  eyes,  deep-set,  glowing, 
intense. 

Maggie  blushed  under  them,  and  thought,  "Oh,  surely 
he  does  care  for  me!"  and  straightway  suspended  her 
fixed  resolution  never  to  think  of  him  again. 

How  could  she  help  it?  He  was  magnetic  to  her,  he 
thrilled  her  with  an  ecstatic  delight  in  the  very  sound  of 
his  voice  and  touch  of  his  hand;  even  in  the  outlines  of 
his  face  and  figure.  He  had  once  lent  her  a  book  from 
the  office,  saturated  with  cigar-smoke,  and  Evelyn  had 
said,  "  Bah,  how  odious  !"  But  to  Maggie  it  was  sweeter 
than  patchouly.  It  was  a  breath  from  the  atmosphere  in 
which  they  lived. 

"Is  it  time  for  church?"  Mr.  Courtenay  asked. 

"Nearly,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Clyde,  seating  herself, 
and  drawing  on  her  gloves. 

Mr.  Burns  resumed  the  piano-stool. 

"You  were  playing?"  said  Miss  Clyde. 

No  one  would  ever  think  her  at  a  loss  for  words  to  carry 
on  a  conversation.  One  rather  suspected  her  of  a  good 
deal  of  reserved  force.  She  was  quiet  and  stately,  and 
those  qualities  added  to  the  idea  of  statuesqueness  which 
Burr  admired  in  her. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


43 


"  I  was  drumming  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"Won't  you  sing  us  something  before  we  go?" 

"  We  have  hardly  time,  have  we?" 

"Oh,  yes,  please  !"  said  Maggie,  with  eloquent  eyes. 

Mr.  Burns  could  not  often  be  induced  to  make  an  ex- 
hibition of  himself;  as  he  phrased  it,  but  now  he  turned 
around  and  touched  the  keys  and  sang  with  thrilling 
pathos,  "  Come  ye  Disconsolate." 

His  voice  had  a  rare,  penetrating  power,  like  his  eyes. 
When  he  had  finished  he  arose  abruptly,  and  took  up  his 
hat.  Maggie's  eyelashes  glistened  with  tears. 

There  was  a  general  movement,  and  they  started.  Out- 
side the  gate  Mr.  Burns  offered  Maggie  his  arm,  and  walked 
fast  to  avoid  anything  like  sentiment.  Burr  and  Miss 
Clyde  came  on  slowly,  for  the  opposite  reason.  Not  that 
Miss  Clyde  was  sentimental, — she  was  rather  matter-of- 
fact,  and  not  at  all  subject  to  fine  emotion,  except  the 
fine  emotion  of  love. 

The  moon  was  shining,  and  hosts  of  glittering  stars 
were  pointing  earthward. 

Mr.  Burns  descanted  on  the  most  unpoetical  of  sub- 
jects :  the  bleakness  of  the  prairies  in  winter,  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  winds,  and  the  probabilities  of  a  milder  season 
than  usual ;  all  of  which  topics  were  of  general  interest, 
and  could  hardly  fail  of  entertaining  any  young  woman 
who  had  the  good  of  the  country  at  heart ;  and  Maggie 
answered,  yes,  the  prairies  were  bleak,  and  the  winds  and 
the  winter  storms  were  dreadful ;  but  the  Indian  summer 
was  beautiful,  and  sometimes  it  stretched  to  almost  Christ- 
mas (Maggie  was  an  older  resident  than  Mr.  Burns),  and 
it  was  splendid  to  go  nutting. 

But,  now  and  then,  a  little  unconscious  sigh  fluttered 
up,  and  Mr.  Burns,  glancing  down,  felt  an  impulse  to 
tuck  the  small  gloved  hand  more  snugly  and  warmly  under 
his  arm. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  Maggie  was  a  little  paler  than 
usual,  her  cheeks  seemed  less  rounded  and  rosy,  and  he 
ventured  to  remark  upon  it,  and  asked  if  she  were  not 
feeling  well. 

"I,  not  feeling  well?" 

The  surprised  brown  eyes  flashed  up  at  him,  brimming 


44 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


with  shy  tenderness  in  the  moonlight,  and  a  pink  flush 
spread  itself  over  her  face.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
prettiness  about  Maggie,  the  freshness  and  bloom  of 
youth. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  sick,"  she 
said,  and  the  long  lashes  drooped  again  on  the  peachy 
cheeks. 

Mr.  Burns  strode  on  a  little  faster.  They  were  nearing 
the  place  of  worship. 

High-Water-Mark  had  not  yet  advanced  sufficiently  in 
religious  and  financial  importance  to  erect  church  build- 
ings, and  so  devout  services  were  conducted  every  Sab- 
bath morning  and  evening  in  the  village  school-house, — 
the  only  available  place. 

Two  ministers  of  different — and  it  might  be  added,  in- 
compatible— denominations  (though  the  ministers  them- 
selves were  upon  excellent  terms  with  each  other)  preached, 
on  alternate  Sundays,  to  about  the  same  congregation. 

A  village  school-house  is  apt  to  be  an  untidy  and  some- 
what unhallowed  place.  This  one  was.  But  a  janitor 
had  been  employed  by  the  several  boards  of  trustees  of 
church  matters  to  make  a  business  of  sweeping  and  dust- 
ing, and  arranging  the  humble  furniture  every  Saturday 
afternoon,  with  reference  to  the  day  following,  thereby 
sanctifying  the  profane  edifice  for  religious  exercises.  The 
seats  were  rude,  notched,  pencil-marked,  and  otherwise 
marred  and  defaced.  Notwithstanding,  there  were  a  few 
aristocratic  ladies — including  the  ladies  at  Deacon  Clyde's 
— who  spread  their  elegant  folds  of  silk  and  cashmere 
upon  them,  and  exhibited  lovely  bonnets  in  remarkable 
bass-relief  to  the  background  of  disreputable  black-board 
and  dirty,  whitewashed  walls. 

"I  think  we  had  better  not  wait  for  those  two,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  glancing  back  as  they  reached  the  school- 
house,  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  door-knob.  By  chance 
he  seated  Maggie  and  himself  on  the  same  bench  with 
Sarah  Jenkins  and  her  lover,  who,  it  appeared,  had  come 
to  an  amicable  understanding. 

Mr.  Courtenay  and  Miss  Clyde  entered  and  took  a  back 
seat.  The  back  seats  were  usually  left  for  the  aristocracy, 
but  sometimes  a  number  of  ungodly  boys  got  into  them. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-  MARK.  45 

It  was  so  upon  this  occasion,  but  they  scuttled  away, 
speedily  and  with  little  noise,  at  the  approach  of  "Lawyer 
Courtenay." 

Soon  the  minister  and  the  elder  entered,  and  marched 
down  the  aisle,  hats  in  hand  and  hands  kid-gloved.  The 
minister,  "poor  fellow,"  as  Mr.  Burns  had  irreverently 
called  him,  had  assumed  clerical  dignity  in  the  shape  of 
a  long  buttoned-up  overcoat. 

Mr.  Burns  speculated  on  the  difference  between  running 
over,  in  thin  clothes,  to  poke  the  fires  and  trim  the  lights, 
and  marching  in  stately  order  and  full  equipment  of  heavy 
garments  to  perform  the  solemn  duties  of  the  sanctuary. 

The  presiding  elder  was  a  man  of  fine  appearance,  with 
a  military  suggestiveness  in  his  clothes  and  bearing.  He 
was  learned  and  eloquent,  and  was  much  praised  and 
admired ;  though,  perhaps,  not  well  understood  in  his 
finest  passages  and  best  declamation  by  the  greater  part  of 
his  audience,  but  commanded  all  the  more  reverence  for 
that ;  for  it  is  true  of  our  superstitious  nature  that  what- 
ever is  a  little  mysterious  to  us  commands  our  high  regard. 
That  which  comes  down  to  a  level  with  our  understanding, 
fails,  in  a  measure,  of  our  respect.  Is  this  egotism  or 
modesty?  I  am  inclined  to  the  latter  on  behalf  of  this 
congregation,  for,  surely,  if  they  could  go  straight  through 
the  elder's  sermon,  from  beginning  to  end,  it  wouldn't  be 
much  of  a  sermon  !  I  don't  know  but  the  Roman  Catho- 
lics are  right  with  their  Latin,  after  all ;  there  is  policy  in 
it  as  regards  poor,  ignorant  humanity. 

The  elder  had  selected  for  his  text  the  remarkable  dec- 
laration, "  Ye  must  be  born  again,"  and  treated  it  in  much 
the  usual  manner.  The  discourse  was  not  referred  to  on 
the  way  back  to  the  deacon's,  but  when  the  door  had 
closed  upon  the  young  ladies,  Mr.  Burns  remarked,  "  It 
struck  me,  to-night,  what  an  extraordinary  injunction  that 
is." 

"The  text?"  asked  Burr,  who  had  the  same  thought  in 
his  mind. 

"Yes.  What  a  subject  if  he  could  but  have  handled 
it !  But  what  a  subject  to  preach  to  that  congregation  I 
One  of  the  profoundest  declarations  in  all  Scripture." 

"He  simplified  it,  however,"  said  Burr,  smiling. 


46  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"Yes,  he  simplified  it  as  some  of  our  hard  words  are 
simplified  by  their  no  less  hard  definitions.  Do  you  know, 
Burr,  I  have  heard  but  a  very  few  sermons  in  my  life  that 
did  not  outrage  my  feelings.  Take  this:  The  sins  of  the 
fathers  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children.  I  have  felt  my 
blood  boil  with  indignation  over  sermons  preached  from 
that  text ;  and  yet,  how  just  and  perfect  is  the  law  when 
we  understand  it !  If  ministers  could  get  behind  this 
literalism  and  bring  to  light  the  soul-life  of  these  texts  I 
Every  one  of  them  is  a  rock  which  needs  to  be  struck 
with  an  Aaron-rod  to  make  the  living  waters  gush.  They 
preach  '  Christ,  and  him  crucified,'  and  every  time  they 
do  it  they  crucify  us.  Mankind  will  never  imbibe  real, 
Christian  principles  merely  through  pity  for  Him  who 
suffered.  We  do  not  accept  the  fact  that  the  earth  is 
round  because  Galileo  was  punished  for  declaring  it.  I 
hold  that  I  am  a  Christian  myself,  and  that  Christ  is  the 
Saviour  of  mankind.  His  philosophy  will  stand  the  test 
of  all  ages  and  remain  the  foundation  of  all  goodness, 
because  it  is  truth.  But  I  can  never  allow  myself  to  be 
classified  with  those  who  are  technically  called  Christians. 
They  persist  in  offering  sacrifice  to  Christ  the  Individual, 
and  I  wish  to  found  myself  upon  Christ  the  Principle. 
The  highest  devotion  is  in  observing  and  following  the 
teachings  of  those  whom  we  would  honor." 

When  they  got  back  home,  the  fire  had  burned  low  and 
the  lamps  were  glimmering  faintly.  The  law-office  was 
not  a  room  or  suite  of  rooms  in  a  brick  "  block,"  or  other 
mammoth  building,  as  is  usual  in  more  pretentious  cities, 
but  was  a  little  independent  structure,  with  a  bedroom 
in  the  rear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MR.  BURNS  was  an  early  riser.  That  is,  he  was  much 
in  advance  of  Mr.  Courtenay  in  point  of  getting  up. 

The  following  morning  being  a  sharp,  bright  November 
morning,  shortly  after  Jack  Wilds,  a  lad  employed  about 
the  premises  to  make  fires  and  bring  in  fuel,  and  feed  and 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


47 


curry  the  horse  in  the  stable  back  of  the  office,  had  per- 
formed these  several  duties  and  retired,  he  arose  and  un- 
derwent his  usual  copious  ablutions  at  the  wash-stand  ; 
after  which  he  applied  an  energetic  brush  to  his  hair, 
which,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  was  getting  rather 
long,  and,  being  of  a  curly  nature,  rather  troublesome. 
Then  he  went  out  into  the  office,  took  up  his  hat,  flung 
the  before-mentioned  blue  cloak  around  him,  and,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  called  to  Burr  to  get  up  and 
come  on,  he  was  going  to  breakfast.  It  appeared  to  be  a 
mere  matter  of  form,  for,  without  waiting  for  a  response, 
he  stepped  out  and  proceeded  down-street  to  the  hotel, 
and  Burr  slumbered  on. 

Breakfast  over,  he  went  into  the  barber-shop  and  got 
his  hair  cut,  and  returned  to  the  office  and  entered  upon 
his  poem  again  with  that  vigor  of  thought  and  freshness 
of  spirit  that  come  with  a  bracing  air  and  a  fair  appetite 
to  the  tolerably  young. 

Mr.  Burns  did  not  feel  himself  young ;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  been  through  everything,  and  was  a  good 
deal  bruised  and  cut  up.  But  he  still  possessed  the  power 
of  throwing  off  his  burdens  now  and  then,  and  letting 
himself  up  into  a  freer  air. 

He  was  still  scratching  away  with  zeal  when  Burr  ap- 
peared at  the  door  of  the  little  back-room,  good-natured 
and  handsome  as  an  Apollo,  with  his  black  hair  brushed 
back. 

"Why  didn't  you  call  me,  Charley?"  he  asked;  and 
that  being  his  standing  morning  inquiry,  Mr.  Burns  gave 
it  the  customary  answer  without  looking  up. 

"I  did  call  you." 

Burr  returned,  half  skeptically,  "I  didn't  hear  you," 
and  went  back  to  complete  his  toilet. 

He  presently  came  out  with  his  great-coat  buttoned  up 
to  the  chin, — he  took  excellent  care  of  himself, — put  on 
his  hat  (not  a  silk  hat,  silk  hats  were  at  variance  with 
High-Water-Mark  etiquette,  except  for  the  minister),  and 
then  he  went  down  to  breakfast. 

Upon  his  return,  finding  Mr.  Burns  still  busily  writing, 
he  inquired  with  sudden,  renewed  interest  after  the  poem. 
Since  that  night  they  had  not  mentioned  it;  Mr.  Burns 


48  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

had  felt  a  little  indignant  and  Burr  conscience-smitten. 
That,  however,  was  wearing  off. 

Mr.  Burns  held  up  an  extended  legal-cap  sheet  closely 
written. 

"What!  have  you  written  all  that?"  exclaimed  Burr. 
"Really,  Charley,  you  are  developing  a  surprising  fac- 
ulty." 

"No;  not  developing,  only  exercising,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "  My  faculties  all  came  to  light  years  ago.  I  am 
not  conscious  of  anything  latent.  Think  I  made  as  good 
rhymes  at  fifteen  as  I  do  now." 

Mr.  Courtenay  lit  a  cigar  and  took  up  a  newspaper. 

Mr.  Burns,  turning  again  to  the  desk,  wrote  on  until 
his  poetic  impulse  was  exhausted,  and  then  came  around 
to  the  stove,  disposed  to  talk. 

"I  wonder  if  the  'Comet'  will  be  out  to-day?"  said 
he.  He  referred  to  the  local  periodical. 

Burr  laid  down  his  paper.  "  It  is  difficult  to  say  ;  the 
'  Comet'  is  a  luminary  not  to  be  depended  on  like  the 
fixed  planets.  It  is,  as  its  name  implies,  of  a  meteoric 
character,  appearing  and  disappearing  at  uncertain  in- 
tervals." 

"  Given  its  appearances  I  can  calculate  to  a  degree  of 
accuracy  its  disappearances,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  a  laugh. 
He  used  the  "Comet"  to  rub  the  windows  and  lamp- 
chimneys,  it  being  printed  on  soft,  pulpy  paper,  almost 
as  pliable  as  a  rag,  and  rags  were  scarce. 

Just  while  they  were  speaking  the  printer's  boy  came  in 
with  a  damp  number  of  the  "  Comet"  neatly  folded.  It 
was  a  courtesy  the  editor  always  showed  the  attorneys, 
sending  their  paper  per  express,  instead  of  leaving  it  in 
the  post-office. 

Mr.  Burns  signified  the  customary  "thank  you,"  and 
the  boy  went  out. 

"  Run  over  the  locals,"  said  Burr,  "and  see  what  has 
been  going  on  in  the  neighborhood." 

Mr.  Burns  read  a  few  items  about  the  weather, — Row 
in  the  Lim'rick  Settlement, — Elopement  in  Winchester, 
"man  of  fifty  runs  off  with  hired  girl,  leaving  wife  and 
children." 

"A  striking  commentary  on  the  human  affections," 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


49 


said  Burr ;  "  proves  the  truth  of  the  poetic  sentiment  that 
the  heart  never  grows  old." 

"Here  is  a  railroad  item,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  '"Re- 
liable information.'  Humph !  I  have  built  too  many 
delusive  hopes  on  reliable  information  respecting  rail- 
roads. ' ' 

"  Let's  hear  it,"  said  Burr. 

"  '  P.  and  Q.  R.  R.  Company  intend,  as  soon  as  spring 
opens,  to  begin  work,  and  push  through  rapidly,  on  the 
North-Western  line.'  " 

"  Which  route,  I  wonder?"  said  Burr ;  "  though  I  sup- 
pose they  will  .wait  to  determine  that  until  they  have 
ascertained  who  will  pay  the  greater  bonus.  Is  that  all 
it  says  about  it?" 

"  That  is  the  gist  of  it ;  the  editor  appends  some  re- 
marks." 

"  Never  mind  the  editor's  remarks ;  I  hold  them  to 
be  worthless  upon  any  subject,"  said  Burr. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  continually  imposing  upon  the 
people's  credulity  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burns,  throwing  the 
paper  aside.  "The  prospects  for  a  railroad  have  been 
just  as  brilliant  ever  since  we  came  here  as  they  are  now." 

"Good  heavens,  Charley  !  have  a  little  patience,"  said 
Burr.  "Everything  can't  be  done  in  a  day." 

"Something  might  be  accomplished  in  a  lifetime," 
Mr.  Burns  returned ;  "  if  a  man  had  a  dozen  lives  it 
would  be  different.  But  only  one  !  and  that  slipping  out 
of  our  grasp  and  we  looking  on  quietly  and  letting  it  go." 

Burr,  apprehensive  that  his  friend  was  bent  on  working 
himself  up  into  one  of  his  gloomy  states,  bethought  him 
of  the  poem  as  a  diversion,  and  requested  to  hear  a  few 
more  stanzas  read. 

Mr.  Burns  presently  went  to  the  desk  and  took  out 
his  manuscript,  and,  ignoring  the  fact  that  his  critic  had 
probably  slept  through  the  last  dozen  lines  or  so,  began 
where  he  had  left  off: 

"  Ev'n  Shakspeare,  woman's  most  gallant  defender, 
Who  praised  the  sex  as  so  gentle  and  tender, 
And  otherwise  lovable, — even  he 
Thought  best  with  th'  world  on  this  point  to  agree ; 
Lamenting  th'  frailty  of  woman,  that  she 
Is  th'  definition  of  '  Inconstancy.' 
c  5 


5  o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  And  how  unjust  that  a  person  should  be 
Adjudged,  alone,  by  what  others  may  see, 
Who  see  but  the  surface !     And  then  connect — 
As  mathematicians — cause  and  effect." 

"Are  you  sure  that  last  is  an  entirely  original  simile?" 
asked  Mr.  Courtenay,  interrupting. 

"I  could  not  swear  to  it,"  Mr.  Burns  admitted.  "And 
just  here  let  me  state,  once  for  all,  that  very  frequently  a 
thought  glides  off  my  pen  that  appears  strangely  familiar 
to  me,  though  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  previous 
knowledge  of  it." 

"  Your  position  disarms  criticism  on  the  score  of 
plagiarism,"  said  Burr,  feeling  that  his  office  as  critic 
was  becoming  somewhat  circumscribed.  "However,  it 
only  proves  the  truth  of  what  I  said  some  time  back : 
all  paths  are  so  trodden,  and  thought  is  so  universal 
upon  all  subjects  that  are  thought  about  at  all,  that  there 
is  no  new  thing  to  be  said." 

"Another  thing  that  I  have  observed,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
"  is,  that  when  I  take  up  a  subject  and  think  hard  upon 
it,  and  elicit — as  I  flatter  myself — a  new  idea  from  it,  I 
immediately  begin  to  see  it  floating  about  in  current  liter- 
ature, showing  that  other  minds  have  been  busy  with  the 
same  thought." 

"That  is  the  result,  Charley,  of  the  uniform  cultiva- 
tion of  mental  soil.  Each  era  in  the  public  mind  is 
marked  with  some  general  cast  of  thought.  And  when 
the  people  of  any  period  bring  their  intellectual  energies 
to  bear  upon  a  given  question  (which  the  people  of  all 
periods  do),  the  natural  deduction  is  that  many  of  them 
will  develop  the  same  ideas.  Every  man's  thought  is  a 
part  of  the  capital  stock  of  the  age." 

Mr.  Burns  fell  into  a  speculative  silence,  which  Burr 
filled  up  with  smoking.  By  and  by  he  remarked,  "What 
we  were  speaking  of  a  moment  ago,  Burr,  our  familiarity 
with  a  new  thought,  as  if  we  had  known  it  before,  in  our 
present  consciousness,  or  in  some  pre-existent  state " 

"  Pray  don't  found  yourself  on  a  pre-existent  state, 
Charley,"  Burr  interrupted.  "A  future  state  is  more 
than  many  of  us  dare  aspire  to  in  this  day  of  skepticism. 
Though  I  have  a  theory,"  he  added,  speculatively,  re- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  5 1 

moving  his  cigar  and  blowing  a  slender  column  of  smoke 
upward  and  watching  its  ascent,  "that  this  essence 
which  we  call  soul  is  simply  the  breath  of  the  Infinite, 
blown  now  upon  this  instrument,  and  now  upon  that.  It 
may  be  that  this  spirit  within  me  has  lived  in  a  thousand 
others  before  me,  and  will  still  go  on  living  after  me." 

"Do  you  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "that  there  can 
be  a  proper  continuation  of  this  life  of  ours  if  our  per- 
sonality is  destroyed  and  our  consciousness  cut  off? 
Why,  there  is  nothing  of  us  but  our  consciousness  !  If 
a  dew-drop  loses  its  identity  when  it  is  sucked  up  by  the 
atmosphere  and  resolved  into  vapor,  then  I  contend  that 
the  dew-drop  is  absolutely  destroyed.  So  with  us.  If  a 
man  is  to  go  through  some  change  in  which  he  loses  his 
former  self,  it  seems  to  me  that  this  immortality  which 
we  so  long  for  is  no  object  to  him,  but  merely  to  the 
Power  that  wishes  to  perpetuate  existence  in  these  chang- 
ing forms.  What  puppets  we  are  !  Man's  struggles  are 
vain.  God  rules  over  all ;  it  is  his  concern,  not  ours." 

"  Man's  struggles,  I  suspect,  are  a  part  of  God's  plan," 
said  Burr.  "  I  should  like  to  be  enlightened  as  to  what 
purpose  they  serve.  Probably  they  belong  to  the  refining 
process. ' ' 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  be  any  satisfaction  to  us,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  "to  account  for  all  our  grievances  by  believ- 
ing that  we  thus  help  on  toward  some  Higher  Life  which 
— though  it  might  even  be  a  sort  of  continuation  and 
refinement  of  our  own — we  should  yet  have  no  actual 
consciousness  of." 

Mr.  Courtenay  laughed.  "All  the  way  up  from  the 
lowest  insect,"  said  he,  "  the  animal  creation  are  devour- 
ing one  another.  The  poor  beasts  that  suffer  death  to  feed 
the  lives  of  men  have  no  realization  of  the  importance  of 
their  office, — and  I  doubt  its  being  any  comfort  to  them 
if  they  had.  So,  perhaps  (though  in  a  far  higher  and 
finer  sense),  out  of  our  miserable  existence  is  extracted 
some  purified  form  of  being  that  we  have  no  more  con- 
ception of  than  the  brute  has  of  ours." 

"That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "If 
I  could  but  believe  that  throughout  the  eternal  ages  I 
should  still  be  I.  Good  God  !  it  seems  to  me  a  soul — 


5  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

a  living,  absorbing,  conscious  soul — is  too  precious  a  thing 
to  be  dropped  into  oblivion  !  That  you,  Burr  (for  in- 
stance), with  all  your  splendid  accomplishments,  with 
your  grand  intellect,  comprehending  in  its  small  but  won- 
derful space  the  wisdom  of  centuries,  should  drop  into 
the  ground  and  become  nothing  !" 

Burr  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Don't  be  personal,  Charley,"  said  he;  "it  isn't 
pleasant.  By  the  way,  I  did  not  suppose  you  thought 
this  '  I'  of  so  much  consequence.  I  remember  when  we 
were  discussing  a  similar  question  the  other  evening,  you 
took  the  opposite  side." 

"It  was  not  a  similar  question,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "I 
meant  then  that  I  did  not  care  for  marked  distinction 
among  my  fellow-beings,  that  it  was  of  little  importance 
where  I  was  placed  .in  the  body  of  humanity.  In  my  re- 
lation, as  a  human  being,  with  the  universe,  I  want  to  be 
/.  I  don't  want  to  be  smothered  out  of  sight." 

After  a  little  silence  he  took  up  the  poem  again. 

"  Let  him  who  has  never  yet  missed  a  bird 
That  he  aimed  at,  give  his  honor's  word, 
If  ev'ry  result  in  life  that  he  sees, 
With  th'  motive  beneath  it  exactly  agrees ; 
If  the  outer  garb  is  as  nicely  refined 
As  th'  beautiful  warp  and  woof  of  th'  mind. 

"  The  artist  paints,  and  his  soul  is  on  fire ; 
And  th'  world  stands  by  to  applaud  and  admire. 
Yet  e'en  in  his  triumph,  for  some  hidd'n  cause, 
His  soul  is  unsated  with  th'  world's  applause. 
Still  his  hand  and  his  brain  are  never  at  rest ; 
Ah  !  he  knows  that  th'  world  has  not  seen  his  best. 
There  are  finer  gems  in  his  artist-heart 
Than  any  picture  in  the  Halls  of  Art." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  interrupted  Mr.  Courtenay;  ad- 
ding, frankly,  "  and  as  trite  as  it  is  true,  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  so.  Of  course  you  express  it  very  felicitously ; 
but  there  has  existed  this  vexatious  fact  in  the  mind  of 
genius  ever  since  a  human  soul  was  born,  that  an  ideal 
can  never  be  fully  realized.  A  painting  bears,  of  course, 
about  the  same  relation  to  the  artist's  conception  as  a  por- 
trait does  to  the  original.  And  to  him — the  artist — it  is 
about  as  satisfactory  as  would  be  to  you  the  photograph  of 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


S3 


the  woman  you  love.  The  thousand  varying  shades  of 
the  great  conception — like  the  emotions  of  the  soul — are 
not  portrayed.  Only  those  who  know  the  original  can 
see  the  likeness;  also,  only  those  who  by  inspiration,  as 
it  were,  or  by  kinship  of  soul,  can  make  of  the  painting 
a  gate  through  which  to  enter  the  artist's  realm  of  fancy, 
can  know  the  picture.  The  artist — and  none  the  less  the 
poet — at  best,  but  gives  the  world  a  photograph.  Genu- 
ine poetry  is  that  which  is  lived  ;  that  which  is  written  is 
but  a  description  of  it ;  and  those  who  write  it  most  often 
lack  it  in  their  lives  !  A  soul  must  give  out  life  to  some- 
thing, or  in  something,  as  a  tree  gives  out  leaves  and  blos- 
soms, and  fruit,  and  germs  for  other  trees.  It  is  oftenest 
seen  in  the  social  and  domestic  circles,  of  course;  but 
lacking  this,  or  soaring  beyond  it,  the  inspiration  of  liv- 
ing bursts  through  other  channels,  and  we  have  poems, 
and  paintings,  and  sculpture,  and  music,  that  are  neither 
more  nor  less  than  souls  photographed.  And  they  are  the 
mirrors  in  which  we  may  behold  ourselves, — the  farthest 
stretch  of  the  possible  in  us,- — so  that  we  sometimes  ex- 
claim, I,  too,  am  a  poet, — or  a  painter, — or  a  sculptor. 
Genius  is  not  so  rare  a  thing  as  we  are  inclined  to  think ; 
the  most  of  us  have  a  spark  of  it  hid  away  somewhere  in 
our  nature.  Many  of  us  obscure  mortals  bound  up  re- 
sponsive, as  soon  as  the  magnet  is  held  over  us,  showing 
that  we  have  the  faculty,  if  not  the  power,  of  genius.  I 
sit  here  in  my  dingy  office,  little  and  unknown,  and  read 
Charles  Sumner's  speeches  in  the  'Tribune'  and  fancy  my- 
self as  big  a  statesman  as  he.  I  may  not  be  able  to  speak 
as  well  as  Sumner,  or  write  as  well  as  Emerson,  and  yet, 
what  these  men,  and  other  great  minds,  set  forth,  I  may 
feel  to  be  the  measure  of  myself.  And  what  would  these 
men  do  without  me  to  appreciate  them  ?  The  world  will 
advance  through  me  as  well  as  through  them.  We  may 
not  all  be  able  to  keep  up  with  our  leaders,  but  the  next 
best  thing  is  to  follow  close  after  them.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  worst  thing  in  the  world  to  contend  with  is  stu- 
pidity. It  tears  my  heart,  even  at  this  day,  to  remember 
Socrates." 

"Allow  me  to  ask,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  who  had  been  for 
some  time  trying  to  sandwich  a  question  between  Burr's 

5* 


54 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


rapid  sentences,  "  if,  laying  aside  his  attempts,  mis- 
takes, and  achievements,  a  man  is  as  great  as  his  best 
thoughts?" 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  if  one  would  measure  a  river 
when  it  is  swollen  with  spring  rains  !  However,  when  you 
come  to  bridging  it,  you  have  got  to  bridge  above  high- 
water  mark.  You  must  judge  an  individual  by  his  life 
and  character, — the  even  flow  of  days  and  years.  Still, 
when  you  attempt  to  measure  his  capacity  you  must  allow 
for  high  tides ;  for  a  man,  as  well  as  a  river,  may  go  out 
of  and  beyond  himself.  Inspirational  moments  do  not 
materially  affect  the  even  tenor  of  our  lives,  but  they 
leave  an  impression  always.  Every  soul  that  ebbs  and 
flows  will  mark  high-tide  on  the  borders  of  its  life.  But 
go  on  with  the  reading,  we  have  diverged." 

Mr.  Burns  did  not  look  upon  himself  as  an  inspired 
writer;  his  poem  was  not  a  spontaneous  effusion  such  as 
Burr's  aesthetic  taste  demanded,  but  a  laborious  under- 
taking. 

There  was  a  time  when  he  had  felt  a  good  deal  of  poetic 
enthusiasm,  but  it  proved  itself  to  have  been  but  the  effer- 
vescence of  youthful  hope,  ardor,  and  ambition.  Thou- 
sands have  experienced  it,  and  drained  it  off  like  the 
froth  from  champagne  before  life  has  fairly  begun. 

He  continued  : 

"  This  conscious,  mighty  power  of  soul  to  feel, 
Beyond  man's  utmost  power  to  reveal, 
Shows  all  the  weakness — and  the  strength — of  earth, 
And  proves  the  soul  is  of  immortal  birth. 

"  That  point  we  reach  where  we  cannot  impart 
What  we  feel,  to  another  human  heart, 
Where  the  highest  earthly  intelligence 
Stops,  and  no  cunning  trick  of  mortal  sense 
Can  reveal  to  man  what  we  might  convey 
To  spirit,  uncumbered  with  mortal  clay, 
Is  the  limit  of  earthly  capacity, — 
The  beginning  of  immortality. 

"  Here  is  the  germ  of  everlasting  life. 
With  which  e'en  savage,  pagan  hearts  are  rife ; 
This  longing  after  closer  sympathy 
Than  friend  can  give,  however  dear  he  be. 

"  'Twixt  spirits  there  is  (at  least  there  must  be) 
A  perfect  and  exquisite  sympathy. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  5  5 

Ev'n  souls  clay-embodied,  and  thus  far  concealed, 
Are  oftentimes  to  each  other  revealed, 
In  a  measure.     Oh,  what  rapture  to  feel 
The  power  to  know  what  sense  cannot  reveal ! 

"  It  is  this  divine  power  through  which  we  see 
Something  of  love's  most  strange,  sweet  mystery. 
And  love,  oh,  love  is  a  beautiful  thing! 
Perhaps  it  belongs  but  to  Life's  Young  Spring ; 
For  so  many  hearts  are  withered  and  old, 
And  devoid  of  love,  sear,  desolate,  cold. 

"  If  once  the  sweet  buds  of  promise  sprung 
About  these  cold  hearts  when  they  were  young, 
And  were  snatched,  and  ruined,  and  trampled  on, 
And  the  sad  heart  left  with  its  pain  alone, 
Could  it  take  up  the  '  burden  of  life'  again, 
And  still  live  on,  and  outlive  the  pain? 
Can  one  who  has  lost  all  the  beauty  of  life 
Still  join  in  the  world's  hard  battle  and  strife, 
And  grasp  a  pittance,  "mid  the  noise  and  din, 
Instead  of  the  crown  he  had  hoped  to  win? 
Does  life  still  go  on  when  its  zest  is  fled, 
Or  the  soul  still  pulse  when  all  hope  is  dead?" 

"  Do  you  propound  these  questions  seriously,  my  dear 
Charles?"  Mr.  Courtenay  inquired.  "Because  it  is  not 
right  to  look  upon  life  in  that  desponding  way.  There 
is  no  occasion  for  hope  to  die  or  life  to  lose  its  zest.  I 
maintain  that  every  man  is  the  arbiter  of  his  own  des- 
tiny." 

"  Not  flattering  to  either  of  us,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with 
a  bitter  smile. 

Mr.  Courtenay  continued:  "If  somebody  knocks  you 
down,  get  up  again  ;  the  matter  lies  only  between  you  and 
him,  and  the  world  moves  on.  If  circumstances  go 
against  you,  fight  your  way  through  them.  Life  is  not 
made  very  easy  for  any  of  us,  I  notice.  I  will  tell  you 
where  a  thousand  people  fail ;  they  get  themselves  into  a 
groove  too  narrow  for  the  contingencies  of  life,  and  when 
disaster  comes  and  cuts  off  their  one  resource,  the  one 
little  channel  they  have  crowded  their  life  into,  they  are 
undone.  I  have  known  a  score  of  men  who,  being 
'Christians,'  have  quarrelled  with  their  particular  sect, 
and  gone  out  and  straightway  renounced  their  Christi- 
anity, simply  because  their  whole  idea  of  religion  was 
embodied  in  a  set  of  dogmatic  principles  laid  down  by  a 


5  6  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

single  church  organization.  The  current  of  life  within 
us  should  be  so  broad  and  deep  that  the  cutting  off  of 
one  or  more  of  our  little  tributaries  would  never  turn 
the  tide  out  of  its  course." 

Mr.  Courtenay  ceased  speaking,  and  when  it  appeared, 
by  his  lighting  a  fresh  cigar  and  beginning  to  smoke,  that 
he  had  no  further  remarks  to  offer,  Mr.  Burns  resumed  : 

"  Oh,  the  world  has  many  a  fatal  dart 
That — but  the  world  ignores  a  broken  heart ! — 
Well,  a  broken  purpose  is  all  the  same, 
Or  a  life  that  has  missed  a  noble  aim  ; 
Or  a  ruined  life  that  one  can't  reclaim. 
A  life  or  a  limb  may  be  broken  and  lame. 

"  Yet  every  dead  hope  will  mem'ry  outlast, 
And  th'  heart  remain  true  to  youth's  beautiful  past. 
Love  lies  far  beneath  all  the  outer  strife, — 
Has  chiefly  to  do  with  one's  inner  life. 
I  mean  that  rare,  delicate  sentiment 
That  fills  the  soul  with  a  sweet  discontent ; 
And  not  that  regard  of  a  coarser  cast, 
That  is  knocked  about  in  every  blast 
Of  temper  that  one's  dearest  friends  may  show  ; 
'Tis  a  different  kind  of  love,  you  know, — 
'    A  sensitive  plant,  a  floweret  rare, 

To  be  petted  and  nurtured  with  tender  care. 
Oh,  exquisite  love !     But  its  fatal  sting 
Can  wither  a  soul  to  a  lifeless  thing." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  follow  you,"  Mr.  Courtenay 
interrupted.  "The  poetry  is  very  nice,  but  I  can  with 
difficulty  distinguish  between  your  true  sentiments  and 
your  irony." 

"  I  can  with  difficulty  distinguish  between  them  my- 
self," said  Mr.  Burns.  "I  am  a  mystery  to  myself, — I  am 
full  of  contradictions." 

"  Perhaps  we  may  set  you  down,  then,  as  a  philosopher 
who  sees  all  sides,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  facetiously. 

Mr.  Burns  went  on  : 

"  But  the  picture  of  life  has  two  sides,  of  course ; 
We  look  to  the  sensible  world  t'  endorse 
The  plainer  side,  the  more  practical  view, 
Seen  from  a  point  not  romantic,  but  true. 

"  To  judge  from  this  practical  side  'twould  seem 
That  love,  after  all,  is  only  a  dream  ! 


HIGH-  WA  TER- MARK.  57 

Yet  th'  world  will  agree  that  the  dream  is  sweet. 
And  that  earth  is  heaven  when  lovers  meet ; 
Ay,  that  love  is  life,  complete  and  whole, 
The  divinest  dream  of  a  poet's  soul. 
That  a  woman's  life  down  that  pearly  stream 
Would  be  sweeter  still  than  a  poet's  dream. 
Ay,  sweeter  far,  and  her  heart  is  leal, 
And  true  to  the  dream,  but — 

'  Life  is  real.' 

Some  other  considerations,  you  know, 
Must  be  taken  into  account ;  and  so, 
Tho'  th'  heart  be  faithful,  and  loyal,  and  true, 
Why,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  wouldn't  do 
To  be  rash  in  the  matter,  or — as  it  would  seem — 
Sacrifice  everything  else  to  a  dream. 
Don't  rashly  declare  her  love  has  decreased, 
Or  that  she's  inconstant,  '  to  say  the  least;' 
Or  drink  to  woman's  '  frailty'  a  toast, — 
She  is  only  prudent,  to  say  the  most. 

"  Twixt  love  and  the  world  there's  many  a  strife, 
The  world  having  all  the  substantials  of  life; 
And  love,  though  the  very  charmingest  elf, 
Too  often  has  naught  to  bestow  but  himself." 

"Quite  true,"  said  Burr;   "sentiment  is  frequently  at 
variance  with  the  practical  concerns  of  life." 


"  Who  would  venture  to  sea  with  no  visible  boat 
Launched  on  the  tide  to  keep  him  afloat  ? 
Yet  thousands  embark  on  this  stream  of  love, 
Nor  ask  if  th'  voyage  may  a  safe  one  prove. 
All  alike  with  hope's  joyous  wreaths  bedecked, 
And  happy,  but,  ah  !  some  one  may  be  wrecked, 
And  thrown  back  upon  the  deserted  strand, — 
Not  drowned,  but  powerless  ever  to  land 
Again.     What  a  terrible  risk  to  run, 
The  risking  of  life  when  life's  just  begun ! 

"  The  uncertain  future  no  seer  can  foretell ; 
The  maiden  but  ponders  the  question  well. 
She  takes  in  her  hand  the  withered  flower 
In  the  last  fluttering,  changeful  hour, 
And  its  sweet  voice  pleads  and  her  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  her  heart  turns  wistfully  back  to  him. 
To  him  the  loved  one, — the  loved  and  lost, — 
For  she  has  already  counted  the  cost, 
And  given  him  up. 

But  a  sigh  of  regret 

Breathes  th'  heart's  allegiance, — she  cannot  forget. 
'  I  loved  him,'  she  says ;  '  but,  ah  !  it  would  seem 
That  after  all  it  was  but  Love's  Young  Dream.' 
C* 


5  8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"Yet  love's  young  dream,  strangely  blended  with  truth 
In  the  very  uncertain  woof  of  youth, 
Is,  even  in  one's  advancing  life, 
When  one  is  a  tranquil,  contented  wife, 
Serene  in  life's  placid,  calm  September, 
A  very  beautiful  dream  to  remember." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  through  his  little  cloud 
of  smoke,  with  half-unconscious  emphasis.  "  What !  have 
you  finished?" 

Mr.  Burns  had  collected  his  sheets  together  and  laid 
them  on  the  desk. 

"  Yes,"  said  he ;  "I  have  run  aground.  I  shall  have  to 
wait  for  a  fresh  impetus  and  a  stiff  breeze  to  fill  my  sails." 

"I  hope  they  will  be  forthcoming,"  Mr.  Courtenay 
returned.  "I  was  becoming  deeply  interested.  I  am 
anxious  to  know  how  it  terminated  with  the  youth.  I 
suspect,  however,  the  aroma  of  '  love's  young  dream' 
hardly  lingered  about  the  silken  curl  so  long  as  about  the 
forget-me-not." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  BURNS  had  been  employed  by  Deacon  Clyde  to 
negotiate  for  some  town  lots  he  wished  to  purchase  of  a 
non-resident.  He  got  the  matter  arranged,  and  said  to 
Mr.  Courtenay  one  evening, — 

"  I  think  I  will  walk  up  to  the  deacon's  and  settle  this 
business,"  having  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "Will  you  go 
with  me?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  declined. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  thought,  Charley,"  said  he,  looking  up  quizzically 
from  a  German  paper  he  was  perusing,  "  that  you  had  cut 
yourself  off — and  wished  to  cut  me  off — from  going  to  the 
deacon's  for  fear  of  injury  to  the  young  ladies'  affections?" 

"The  young  ladies,"  returned  Mr.  Burns,  "are  out  of 
the  question  in  this  instance ;  our  business  is  with  the 
deacon." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


59 


"You  are  very  transparent,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay.  "  I  see  you  are  not  averse  to  meeting  the  young 
ladies;  all  you  wish  to  avoid  is  the  responsibility  of  ap- 
pearing to  seek  them.  So  you  smooth  away  the  difficulty 
with  those  town  lots." 

"Of  course,"  returned  Mr.  Burns,  warmly,  "I  am  not 
such  an  egotistic  fool  as  to  suppose  our  bare  presence  and 
social  contact  will  tell  very  heavily  upon  the  young  ladies. 
There  is  no  harm  in  meeting  them,  the  harm  is  in  giving 
them  to  think  we  care  for  them  in  a  particular  way." 

"Well,  go  on,"  said  Burr,  resuming  his  paper;  "you 
have  got  a  fair  excuse,  make  use  of  it." 

There  happened  to  be  company  at  the  deacon's.  Mr. 
Burns,  armed  with  his  deeds  and  titles,  was  ushered  into 
the  parlor  and  introduced  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kirkwood 
(the  Calvinistic  minister),  his  wife,  and  his  wife's  nephew, 
a  young  Dr.  Webster  just  arrived  from  the  East  and  newly 
fledged  from  a  medical  college.  A  worthy  young  fellow 
he  subsequently  proved  himself  to  be,  though  just  now  a 
little  offensive  to  Mr.  Burns  because  of  a  certain  perfume 
of  "  Eastern"  style  and  fashion  that  hung  about  him,  and 
that  is  always  more  or  less  disagreeable  to  Western  nostrils. 

"  He'll  soon  get  that  taken  out  of  him  !"  was  our  cyn- 
ical attorney's  mental  reflection. 

The  doctor  had  come  West  to  establish  himself  in  his 
profession.  Mr.  Burns's  first  momentary  sensation  was 
chagrin  at  finding  himself  in  such  presence,  and  he  was 
tempted  to  beat  a  retreat.  But,  being  very  cordially  re- 
ceived (the  minister  and  the  deacon  both  standing  up  to 
shake  hands  with  him),  he  gradually  expanded.  He  was 
extremely  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  a  warm  social 
atmosphere. 

Mrs.  Kirkwood,  by  whom  he  found  himself  seated  after 
the  greetings  and  introductions,  turned  to  him  a  refined, 
intelligent  face,  and  launched  at  once  into  conversation, 
which  turned  finally  upon  the  contrasts  of  East  and  West. 

Mr.  Burns  took  up  warmly  for  the  West,  and  quoted  a 
little  poetry  upon  it,  which  he  said  his  friend  Courtenay 
had  composed  once  in  an  inspired  moment,  standing 
upright  in  a  carriage  and  sweeping  his  eyes  over  a  vast 
sea  of  tall,  undulating  grass.  The  only  rhythm,  he  ex- 


60  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

.plained,  apologetically,  that  he  ever  knew  Mr.  Courtenay 
to  perpetrate : 

"  There  are  many  who  can  boast  of  a  land  of  milder  air, 
Where  bright  birds  sing  more  sweetly,  and  where  flowers  bloom  more 

fair; 

Of  green  hills  and  snow-capped  mountains, — but,  oh  !  I  love  the  best 
The  pebbly  streams,  wood-bordered,  and  the  prairies  of  the  West." 

Mrs.  Kirkwood  smiled  constrainedly,  having  a  deep- 
seated  prejudice  against  the  unchristian  author  of  the 
rhyme. 

Both  the  attorneys,  in  fact,  had  a  general  reputation 
for  skepticism  in  religious  matters  that  precluded  friendly 
advances  on  the  part  of  conscientious  church  people, 
though  Mr.  Burns,  it  was  believed,  was  the  less  dangerous 
of  the  two. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Kirkwood  said,  "one  wouldn't  forget  to 
mention  the  prairies ;  one's  whole  idea  of  the  West  is  that 
it  is  a  great,  vague  expanse,  with  little  more  to  be  seen  than 
is  seen  from  the  deck  of  a  vessel  in  mid-ocean." 

"  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Burns  (it  was  noticeable  that  Mr. 
Burns  defended  the  land  of  his  adoption  to  everybody 
except  his  friend  Courtenay),  "  I  like  to  be  impressed 
with  the  vastness  of  things.  I  like  the  idea  of  expansion, 
it  agrees  with  my  theology.  So  much  is  said  about 
mounting  up,  I  want  to  widen  out.  I  want  to  get  where 
nothing,  not  even  a  church-spire,  obstructs  my  view." 

Mrs.  Kirkwood  glanced  up  suspiciously,  and  met  his 
frank,  straightforward  blue  eyes  smiling  at  her.  She 
replied  literally  and  a  little  stiffly  that  she  preferred  the 
picturesque  and  cultivated  to  the  bleak  and  barren. 

"Oh,  certainly,  as  a  matter  of  taste,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
"  a  prairie  landscape  would  be  nothing  to  speak  of  in  the 
way  of  beauty.  But  after  I  had  been  here  long  enough 
to  become  accustomed  to  the  prairies  I  went  back  East  to 
the  place  where  I  was  born.  I  had  no  personal  recollec- 
tion of  it,  my  parents  having  come  westward  when  I  was 
but  a  few  years  old.  I  had  the  excuse  of  a  little  business 
for  going,  and  I  naturally  wanted  to  see  the  skies  my  eyes 
first  opened  on.  Well,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  whole 
valley  of  the  Shenandoah  wasn't  big  enough  to  hold  me. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  6 1 

It  cramped  me,  made  me  near-sighted ;  I  had  to  hurry  back 
to  get  a  long  breath  and  a  clear  sweep  of  vision.  I  tell 
you,  madam,  we  Westerners  are  cosmopolitans ;  there  is 
nothing  local  or  small  about  us.  We  don't  cling  forever 
to  old  prejudices,  we  advance." 

Mrs.  Kirkwood  looked  up  with  a  flash  of  her  intelligent 
eyes,  and  a  sudden  determination  to  explore  the  danger- 
ous ground  of  his  "opinions"  and  perhaps  air  her  own 
in  the  broad  scope  his  mind  seemed  to  present.  She  had 
always  regarded  him,  as  well  as  Mr.  Courtenay,  with  a 
good  deal  of  distrust.  But  his  face,  now  that  she  had 
for  the  first  time  got  near  enough  to  him  to  see  something 
of  what  was  in  it,  disarmed  her.  She  felt  that  between 
herself  and  him  existed  a  bond  of  congeniality,  and  that, 
though  they  belonged  to  the  separate  ranks  of  two  op- 
posing forces,  they  might  set  up  a  flag  of  truce  and 
become  personal  friends. 

"  If  you  do  not  cling  to  old  prejudices  you  have  adopted 
some  strong  modern  ones,"  said  she.  Mr.  Burns  raised 
his  eyebrows,  smiling,  and  glad  to  have  her  defend  her 
side.  "  Your  '  broad  views,'  "  she  went  on. 

"  What !  you  think  my  broad  views  are  only  prejudice  ?" 

"I  think  every  man  has  a  set  of  opinions,"  she  re- 
turned ;  "  and  if  they  are  prejudice  in  one  instance,  why 
not  in  another?  Your  idea  of  expansion  is  opposed  to 
some  other  person's  idea  of  contraction  ;  then,  are  you 
any  more  liberal  than  your  neighbor?  He  cannot  take 
in  what  you  see ;  you  cannot  take  in  what  he  sees.  Where 
is  the  difference  between  you?" 

"Why,  the  difference  is  here,"  said  Mr.  Burns:  "I 
try  to  examine  all  things ;  he  is  too  proud,  or  too  preju- 
diced, or  too  cautious- even  to  take  them  up  and  look  at 
them." 

"  If  one  takes  them  up  it  is  not  easy  to  drop  them 
again,"  said  Mrs.  Kirkwood,  quickly.  "Have  you  not 
found  that  true,"  she  asked,  "  of  many  persons  you  have 
interested  yourself  in,  as  well  as  of  many  ideas  you  have 
examined  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "  but  what  of  that  ?  Shall  we  draw 
ourselves  up  like  a  turtle  in  its  shell  for  fear  of  touching 
something  unpleasant  and  that  will  stick  to  our  fingers  ? 

6 


6 2  HIGH  WA  TER-MARK. 

I  want  to  get  out  of  my  shell  and  look  about  me.  You 
orthodox  Christians,  it  seems  to  me,  madam,  labor  too 
much  under  the  superstition  that  the  world  is  full  of  snares 
and  pitfalls  and  enemies.  You  .collect  together  in  your 
strong  castles, — your  creeds  and  churches, — and  peer  out 
through  your  little  loop-holes  on  a  world  of  sin  and  de- 
pravity round  about.  You  are  tender-hearted  and  gen- 
erous, full  of  kindness  and  compassion,  eager  to  succor 
and  to  save.  You  stand  at  all  the  portals,  in  all  the  dan- 
gerous places,  hooking  in  poor,  perishing  sinners,  and 
gathering  them  into  the  shelter  of  your  strong  walls. 
Why  not  level  them  down,  and  stand  out  boldly,  fear- 
lessly, upon  this  green,  beautiful  earth  God  Himself  has 
made!  You  don't  get  near  enough  to  humanity;  you 
don't  let  humanity  get  near  enough  to  you.  My  dear 
madam,  it  is  your  walls,  in  a  thousand  instances,  that 
divide  God's  people  from  each  other !  We  mortals  are 
only  divided  by  walls — of  one  kind  or  another  anyhow — 
of  our  own  building.  We  are  all  His  children." 

Mr.  Burns's  blue  eyes  were  eloquently  lighted  up.  It 
was  a  favorite  theme  of  his,  this  thought  that  God  was 
the  tender  Father  of  all,  ungiven  to  favoritism. 

"You  accuse  me  of  having  my  one  point  of  view,  like 
the  others,"  he  continued,  but  Mrs.  Kirkwood  interrupted 
him,  -with  a  smile  and  a  blush, — 

"  Pray  don't  take  the  accusation  personally ;  I  am  driven 
to  making  that  broad  assertion.  I  should  be  skeptical 
of  humanity  if  I  disbelieved  it,  it  would  prove  men  to  be 
so  dishonest.  As  it  is,  when  I  see  people  opposing  one 
another  it  is  my  comforting  argument  that  they  all  have 
different  stand-points  and  are  true  to  their  convictions." 

"You  are  very  liberal,  then,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  looking 
at  her  with  his  expansive  smile,  and  thinking  he  under- 
stood her  better  than  she  understood  herself,  harnessed  as 
she  was  to  her  creed  and  dogmas. 

"  No,  not  liberal  according  to  your  definition  of  the 
word,"  she  returned;  "all  I  dare  profess  is  a  little 
charity." 

"You  only  keep  the  old  word,  that  is  all  the  differ- 
ence," said  he. 

"I  sometimes  think  those  people  are  the  happiest," 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  63 

Mrs.  Kirkwood  said,  "who  really  and  honestly  see  but 
one  side." 

"And  you  are  not  one  of  those?"  said  he,  a  little  quiz- 
zically. "  Well,  why  should  you  try  to  be?  You  said  a 
moment  ago,  one  could  not  easily  drop  an  idea  he  had 
taken  up  to  examine;  an  idea  is  only  hard  to  drop  when 
we  find  a  truth  in  it.  Why  not  live  up  to  our  discoveries  ? 
Our  lives  are  perfect  in  as  far  as  they  agree  with  the  light 
we  have." 

Turning  his  eyes  at  this  moment,  Mr.  Burns  took  in 
what  was  going  on  elsewhere  in  the  room.  Dr.  Webster 
was  giving  the  young  ladies  a  graphic  account  of  his  trip 
westward.  He  was  a  vivacious  talker,  and  they — at  least 
Maggie — seemed  highly  entertained. 

There  was  a  hungry,  restless  look  in  Evelyn's  eyes  which 
he  had  often  observed  when  Burr  was  not  present.  That, 
more  than  her  manner  toward  Mr.  Courtenay,  proved  how 
much  she  cared  for  him. 

In  Maggie's  simple  nature  there  was  a  vein  of  coquetry, 
and  the  situation  was  highly  agreeable  to  her.  She  liked 
Dr.  Webster's  evident  admiration  of  herself  even  while 
her  heart  was  beating  high  at  the  proximity  of  Mr.  Burns. 
And  the  innocent  little  double-dealer  scarcely  lost  a  word 
either  of  them  said  ! 

Mr.  Burns  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  looking  so 
well ;  so  white,  and  red,  and  bright-eyed. 

Mrs.  Kirkwood  perceiving  his  divided  attention,  allowed 
the  conversation  to  drop,  and  glanced  around  with  deli- 
cacy, to  see  if  there  were  not  some  opening  she  could 
glide  into  and  so  leave  him  to  join  the  young  people. 

But  Mrs.  Clyde  had  stepped  out  of  the  room  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  deacon  and  the  minister  were  afloat  upon 
politics,  that  wonderfully  seductive  stream  to  the  masculine 
heart.  So  she  remained  where  she  was,  and  Mr.  Burns, 
being  a  little  disgusted  with  the  doctor's  animation,  pres- 
ently turned  toward  her  again. 

"  How  do  you  like  Western  society?"  he  asked,  having 
it  in  his  mind  that  Weste/n  society  was  a  rather  loose  in- 
stitution when  a  young  fellow  with  a  glib  tongue  and  a 
handsome  face  could  step  right  into  the  best  of  it  upon  a 
mere  introduction, — through  relatives  who  probably  knew 


64  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

nothing  of  his  private  character, — as  this  Dr.  Webster  was 
doing. 

"We  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  any,  can  we?"  said 
Mrs.  Kirkwood,  smiling.  "We  have  hardly  organized 
ourselves  yet." 

"Well,  who  is  responsible?"  said  he.  "It  seems  to 
me  we  all  have  a  duty  in  this  respect,  the  elements  of  so- 
ciety are  in  us  if  they  are  anywhere ;  why  don't  we  go 
to  work?  Of  course,"  he  added,  a  little  sadly, — having 
reference  to  his  own  and  Mr.  Courtenay's  solitary  lives 
and  not  to  the  young  doctor, — "  we  fellows  who  have  no 
anchorage  in  home  or  family  can't  do  anything.  Don't 
you  think,  madam,  we  are  the  natural  proteges  of  society, 
and  ought  to  be  taken  better  care  of?" 

Mr.  Burns  had  a  winsomeness  that  went  straight  to  the 
feminine — and  especially  the  matronly — heart. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Kirkwood.  "You  make 
me  ashamed  that  we  have  been  so  remiss." 

She  inwardly  resolved  upon  a  different  course  of  action 
in  the  future. 

Mrs.  Clyde  came  in  presently,  and  sat  down  and  began 
saying  something  which  did  not  particularly  interest  or 
concern  Mr.  Burns,  and  he  got  up  and  crossed  over  to  the 
centre-table,  took  up  a  late  magazine  (the  deacon's  young 
ladies  affected  first-class  literature),  and,  seating  himself 
on  the  sofa,  began  turning  the  leaves. 

Maggie,  mindful  of  a  hostess's  duties,  excused  herself 
from  the  doctor  and  Evelyn,  and  went  over  and  placed 
herself  beside  him  with  a  half-shy,  half-coquettish  air. 
He  was  looking  at  a  poem  by  Whittier. 

"Have  you  read  this?"  said  he,  and  without  raising 
his  eyes  for  an  answer, — he  had  long  ago  taken  the  meas- 
ure of  Maggie's  literary  capacity,  and  found  her  not  much 
above  milk-and-water  novels, — began  and  read  the  poem 
through. 

When  he  had  finished,  Maggie  looked  up  brightly. 

"  I  have  heard  that  before  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes;  Eva  and  I  were  visiting  at  N City  last 

week, — I  suppose  you  did  not  know?" 

"Yes;  I  heard  you  were  away." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  65 

"  Well,  we  heard  a  dramatic  reader  there,  a  Miss 
Stuvysant.  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  heard  her  read  this 
poem  !" 

Mr.  Burns  shoved  the  work  back  to  its  place  on  the 
table. 

"What  else  did  she  read, — Poe's  'Raven'  ?  "  said  he, 
with  a  slight  curve  of  his  lip. 

"No,  she  didn't  read  that,  but  she  read  'Hiawatha.' 
I  never  could  see  anything  in  that  before,  but  a  queer 
jingle,  jingle." 

"  And  what  did  she  make  of  it?" 

"A  gentleman  who  was  with  us  said  she  made/^/ry 
of  it." 

"  Indeed?  Longfellow  would  be  glad  of  that.  What 
is  this  Miss  Stuvysant  like, — strong  and  masculine?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  rather  small  and  delicate.  Everybody  said 
her  voice  had  wonderful  '  depth'  and  '  compass'  for  so 
slight  a  creature.  Her  face  looked  like  creamy-white 
lilies,  and  her  eyes  were  large  and  dark,  and  seemed 
sometimes  to  have  a  far-off  look,  like — like  Evan- 
geline's." 

A  steel-engraving  of  that  pathetic  heroine,  hanging  in 
a  small  oval  frame  above  the  piano,  had  caught  Maggie's 
eye  and  suggested  the  comparison. 

"I  heard  some  one  say,"  she  continued,  "that  she 
must  have  had  a  world  of  experience  to  be  able  to  enter 
so  passionately  into  the  grand  things  she  read ;  and 
somebody  else  answered,  '  Humph  !  that  is  the  power 
of  genius,  not  experience."  ' 

So  she  prattled  on,  parrot-like;  and  Mr.  Burns,  with 
his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  and  his  hand  shading 
his  eyes,  looking  at  her,  fell  to  thinking :  "  Of  all  poems, 
and  pictures,  and  dreams,  is  not  this  the  sweetest  ?  This 
fresh,  beautiful  life  in  its  dewy  morning ;  the  bright 
cheeks,  the  sparkling  eyes,  the  radiant  brow  with  its 
shining,  waving  hair?" 

There  is  a  charm  in  youth  and  bloom  and  innocent 
unworldliness  that  touches  a  tender  chord  in  a  man's 
nature.  Mr.  Burns  felt  the  exquisitely  sweet  vibration, 
and  knew  that  if  he  put  out  his  hand  this  beautiful  thing, 
with  all  its  life  and  loveliness,  might  be  his. 

6* 


66  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Maggie  looked  up  presently,  and  threw  a  bomb-shell 
into  the  dreamy  current  of  his  thoughts.  "  There's  going 
to  be  a  dance  next  week  !" 

Mr.  Burns  started  and,  looking  into  the  bright  eyes 
she  flashed  up  at  him,  repeated,  mechanically,  "A  dance 
next  week?"  But  his  thought  arrested,  asked,  "What 
sort  of  a  poem  is  it, — the  '  Morning'  with  its  '  rosy 
fingers'  and  '  pearly  dews'  ?  What  will  be  left  of  those 
bright  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks,  the  fair  brow  and  shining 
hair,  but  husks  after  they  have  faded  !" 

To  Maggie  the  most  delightful  break  in  the  monotony 
of  life  was  a  ball.  She  prattled  on  about  it,  and  Mr. 
Burns  only  half  listened.  He  glanced  at  his  watch  pres- 
ently and  said  he  must  go. 

"  Oh,  don't  hurry  !"  said  Maggie.     "  It  is  not  late." 

Mrs.  Clyde  came  forward,  and  said  they  were  just  going 
to  have  some  refreshments,  and  he  must  stay. 

"  Pray,  excuse  me,"  said  he,  in  the  formal  manner  he 
and  Mr.  Courtenay  were  both  in  the  habit  of  assuming, 
and  which  was  the  result,  probably,  of  their  mingling  so 
little  in  general  society.  "I  have  an  engagement  which 
cannot  very  well  be  neglected.  I  merely  came  in  to  see 
Mr.  Clyde  on  a  matter  of  business.  Perhaps  you  will 
step  into  the  office  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two?" 
turning  to  the  deacon,  who  assented,  but  began  a  strong 
protest  against  his  early  leave-taking,  so  that  he  had  to 
make  his  excuses  over  again.  When  he  had  finally  got 
clear  of  them  all  and  bowed  himself  out,  and  the  door 
closed  behind  him,  he  directed  his  steps  rapidly  toward 
the  river  and  away  from  the  village. 

"  It  is  true,  as  Mrs.  Kirkwood  said  !"  he  ejaculated. 
"  We  have  no  society  here,  and  I  doubt  whether  we  even 
have  the  elements.  What  could  convert  Deacon  Clyde's 
young  ladies  into  grand  and  interesting  women, — such  as 
I  know  there  are  somewhere  in  the  world  ?  Education  ? 
They  have  a  little  of  that,  but  I  don't  see  that  it  goes  any 
deeper  than  the  surface, — etiquette,  polite  language,  and 
a  rather  refined  style  of  dress  and  manner.  Evelyn 
Clyde  is  a  fine  piece  of  statuary,  with  just  soul  enough 
to  worship  a  brilliant  man,  without  in  the  least  compre- 
hending the  talents,  education,  and  accomplishments 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  6  7 

that  make  him  so.  But,  after  all,  it  seems  to  me,  Burr 
sees  no  farther  than  she  does ;  neither  goes  below  the 
other's  dazzling  surface.  He  no  more  perceives  her  shal- 
lowness  than  she  sounds  his  depths.  If  they  marry,  they 
will  marry  on  the  basis  of  a  dream,  that  will  flee  away, 
and  leave  them  strangers  and  aliens  to  each  other.  I 
remember"  (and  Mr.  Burns's  thoughts  went  back  a  great 
way)  "  how  I,  a  man,  was  first  captivated  by  the  per- 
sonal splendor,  brilliancy,  and  eloquence  of  brave  Cap- 
tain Courtenay.  And  to-day  I  do  not  prize  him  for  a 
single  one  of  the  qualities  that  charmed  me  then,  though 
he  still  possesses  them,  and  is  still  admired  on  account 
of  them.  I  have  taken  hold  of  him  by  a  stronger  grasp 
than  admiration,  I  have  founded  a  friendship  and  a  belief 
in  him  that  his  very  faults  cannot  shake ;  albeit  I  do  not 
like  his  faults.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  the  '  love  of  man 
and  woman'  is  not  so  different  from  ordinary  warm  affec- 
tion and  esteem,  but  that  a  woman  would  have  to  find 
some  of  the  same  sterling  qualities  in  Burr  that  I  have 
found  to  be  able  to  love  him  as  well.  I  can  think  of  no 
more  damning  misfortune  than  to  marry  a  woman — to  be 
taken  into  one's  very  innermost  life — who  can't  compre- 
hend, after  she  has  entered  it,  the  holy  of  holies.  Heavens, 
what  a  desecration  !  I  want  my  whole  nature  to  expand 
and  blossom  in  the  light  and  love  of  the  soul  I  unite  with 
mine.  Miss  Clyde  would  undoubtedly  pierce  through 
Burr's  dazzling  surface,  for  a  small  needle  has  a  sharp 
point ;  but  I  doubt  if  she  could  ever  go  much  deeper 
than  his  faults." 

All  this  of  Burr  and  Miss  Clyde ;  then  his  thoughts 
turned  to  Maggie.  And  what  was  Maggie  but  a  school- 
girl, who,  being  a  woman  grown,  was  considered  a  woman 
finished.  Her  education  had  stopped,  except  as  years  and 
experience  would  teach  her  to  be  dextrous  and  econom- 
ical in  household  affairs,  perhaps  patient  and  matronly 
and  full  of  neighborly  kindness  ;  for  Maggie  was  amiable 
and  industrious,  and  had  strong  natural  feelings  and  affec- 
tions, even  if  she  had  not  the  power  of  growth  in  other 
directions.  As  far  as  she  went,  certainly  she  was  all  he 
could  ask.  But  he  felt  the  need  of  a  subtler  companion- 
ship,— intellectual,  moral,  spiritual.  If  he  could  not  find 


68  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

a  being  who  embodied  his  whole  idea  of  wife,  why,  then, 
he  would  not  marry.  Love,  so  often  said  to  be  incidental 
in  a  man's  life,  he  felt  to  be  essential — if  he  married — in 
his,  as  food  for  a  part  of  his  nature,  like  knowledge  for 
the  mind  and  religion  for  the  soul, — the  supreme  thing, 
permeating  all  the  rest.  "  Love  is  not  simply  a  snare  to 
entrap  us  into  matrimony,"  he  thought;  "its  chimes 
should  ring  down  the  whole  journey  of  life,  and  strike 
as  sweetly — more  powerfully  upon  the  ears  of  seventy 
than  of  seventeen." 

Gradually  his  mind  went  back  over  a  sweep  of  years, 
and  he  wondered  what  sort  of  woman  had  developed  out 
of  the  little  girl  he  had  once  believed  that  he  loved.  His 
memory,  at  least,  was  loyal  to  her  virtues  and  her  intel- 
ligence. He  knew  that  she  possessed  a  soul  above  the 
grovelling  things  of  earth.  Perhaps  she  was  a  grand 
woman  now,  nobly  rounded  and  perfected.  He  won- 
dered, vaguely,  if  she  might  not  have  power  to  charm 
him  again  if  they  should  happen  to  meet  in  some  of  the 
crooked  by-paths  of  life.  The  thought  thrilled  him.  He 
would  be  glad  if  she  could ;  it  was  very  sweet  to  love 
and  to  be  loved.  Then  Maggie  Atherton's  pretty  face 
came  up  again, — as  faces  will  come  in  dreams, — with  its 
shy,  bright  eyes. 

After  all,  people  are  strikingly  affected  by  sense.  It 
is  the  actual  presence,  contact,  personal  magnetism,  that 
creates  (and  in  most  cases  holds)  the  subtle,  sweet  emo- 
tion we  call  love.  The  absent  for  long  years  can  have 
but  little  influence,  however  admired,  esteemed,  revered, 
compared  with  one  who  is  present  and  can  wield  some 
personal  attraction.  Could  she  charm  him  again  ?  Alas, 
how  ?  since  time  and  separation  have  swept  away  all  the 
sweet  influences  of  her  presence  and  personality,  and 
made  her  no  longer  the  object  of  an  active  affection, 
which  needs  the  daily  bread  of  daily  sight  and  touch  and 
companionship  to  keep  it  aflame.  Loved  still,  perhaps, 
with  a  softened  tenderness  like  that  we  feel  for  those 
long  dead  and  at  intervals  forgotten. 

It  was  starlight  and  clear  when  he  began  his  brisk  walk 
and  meditations.  The  road  which  he  travelled  led  him 
into  a  strip  of  woodland  skirting  the  river. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  69 

He  was  presently  aware  of  a  lulling  sound  in  the  tree- 
tops,  and  looking  up,  saw  detached,  ragged-edged  clouds 
scudding  across  the  sky  and  gathering  darkly  in  the 
west. 

He  turned  about  to  retrace  his  steps.  Near  the  edge 
of  the  village  stood  a  rude,  dismantled  fort,  which  the 
early  pioneers  had  erected  as  a  sort  of  protection  against 
marauding  bands  of  Indians  in  the  neighborhood. 

Coming  near  to  this  old  fort,  Mr.  Burns  espied,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall,  the  figure  of  a  man  walking  before 
him  slowly  in  the  same  direction. 

It  was  unmistakably  the  figure  of  Burr  Courtenay; 
there  could  not  be  another  form  like  that,  with  such 
graceful,  gliding  motion.  Clinging  to  his  arm — the  arm 
next  the  wall — was  a  woman. 

Mr.  Burns  stopped,  confounded. 

What  woman, — not  Miss  Clyde,  surely? 

Miss  Clyde  ! — preposterous  !  This  woman  was  short ; 
Burr  bent  his  head  to  talk  to  her. 

She  was  enveloped  in  a  large  waterproof  cloak ;  he 
could  see  its  heavy  folds  flapping  in  the  wind,  and  the 
huge  frill  of  the  uncomely  hood  gathered  about  her  face 
as  she  turned  it  toward  her  companion. 

Suddenly,  out  from  a  break  in  the  wall,  sprang  another 
figure  in  front  of  these  two, — the  figure  of  a  man  with  a 
gun  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Drop  that  girl's  arm  this  instant,  sir  !  or  I'll  blow  the 
villain's  heart  out  o'  ye  !"  he  exclaimed,  and  levelled  the 
gun  at  Burr's  breast. 

Unlike  most  women  in  similar  circumstances,  this  woman 
stood  mute  and  motionless. 

Burr  also  stopped,  but  did  not  drop  the  arm  as  com- 
manded. 

"  I  was  not  aware  you  had  any  claims  upon  this  young 
lady,  sir ;  if  so,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  but  presume  it  is 
optional  with  her  to  remain  under  my  protection  or  go 
with  you.  The  latter,  it  seems,  would  be  the  safer,  see- 
ing you  go  armed  in  this  dreary  neighborhood." 

He  glanced  around  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  with 
inimitable,  good-natured  contempt. 

One  thing  Mr.  Burns  observed,  that,  though  he  was 


70  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

not  in  the  least  moved  by  the  man's  angry  threat,  he  gave 
the  woman  no  encouragement  to  cling  to  him. 

"  Your  protection  !"  exclaimed  the  man,  half  suffocated 
with  anger,  and  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  the  cuff  of  his  coat-sleeve.  After  a  short  and  hard 
struggle  with  himself  he  added,  in  a  changed  voice,  that 
was  both  dogged  and  pathetic,  "You're  right;  I  haven't 
no  claim  on  her;  but  neither  have  you." 

"Then,  as  I  remarked,  the  matter  is  at  the  lady's  op- 
tion," said  Burr.  "We  are  not  far  from  the  spot  where 
I  accidentally  met  her,  and  I  should  have  proposed  seeing 
her  home  if  you  had  not  so  opportunely  appeared.  I 
presume,  notwithstanding  your  incivility  to  me,  you  would 
be  a  safe  enough  escort  for  her." 

The  man,  again  clinching  his  hands  with  anger,  hissed 
out,  "  A  safe  escort !  You  to  call  me  a  safe  escort  !" 

He  turned  to  the  girl.  "Are  you  going  with  him  or 
are  you  coming  with  me?"  he  demanded,  with  both  de- 
fiance and  pleading  in  his  voice. 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes — imploringly  Mr.  Burns  thought 
— to  her  companion's  face,  and  then  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  despair,  or  anger,  or  what  not,  dropped  his  arm,  and 
Mr.  Courtenay,  with  an  inclination  of  his  handsome  per- 
son that  had  the  finest  touch  of  mockery  in  it,  walked  on 
and  left  the  two  standing  face  to  face. 

One  instant  the  man  turned  and  looked  after  him, — 
the  splendid  military  figure  moving  off  through  the  silence 
and  dim  light, — grasped  his  weapon  and  muttered  some- 
thing between  his  shut  teeth,  then  threw  it  across  his 
shoulder  and  offered  the  girl  his  arm. 

She  ignored  it  disdainfully ;  but  they  turned  together 
and  came  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Burns,  and  were  careless 
about  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall ;  the  faint  star- 
light shone  in  their  faces. 

Mr.  Burns  crouched  back  farther  into  the  darkness  as 
they  passed  on. 

The  girl  was  Sarah  Jenkins,  the  old  man's  "  Sary  Ann" ; 
her  companion,  Jim  Sites. 

No  need  to  keep  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  now  !  She 
might  walk  with  that  man  half  the  night  and  nothing 
come  of  it  but  a  village  jest. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  7  i 

How  different  to  be  found  walking  with  Burr  Cour- 
tenay ! 

Mr.  Burns  could  not  help  hearing  the  conversation, 
which,  for  a  time,  was  a  monologue  carried  on  by  the 
man. 

"So  you've  forgot  your  promise  a'ready,  Sally." 
There  was  wonderful  pathos  in  the  rough  voice.  "  You 
said  you  wouldn't  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  'em, 
after  we'd  made  up.  As  to  Mr.  Burns,  it's  proved  to  my 
mind  that  he's  purty  much  of  a  gentleman.  But  this  one, 
Sally,  this  one's  a  grand  rascal.  Maybe  I've  got  you  rid 
of  him  now;  he  wouldn't  like  to  have  a  bullet  put  into 
him,  if  he  ain't  no  coward.  They  say  he  was  a  good 
soldier  and  a  good  officer,  and  served  all  through  the  war, 
and  fur  that  I  wouldn't  like  to  harm  him.  I  just  wanted 
to  put  him  out  o'  your  way,  Sally.  'Twa'n't  on  my  own 
account,  neither,  for  I  mean  this  to  be  the  end  of  it. 
Since  you  don't  care  for  me,  Sally,  I  won't  trouble  you 
no  more.  But  you  keep  clear  o'  Lawyer  Courtenay,  Sally, 
keep  clear  o'  him.  He  ain't  your  kind.  Not  that  you 
ain't  good  enough  fur  enny  of  'em,  and  smart  enough, 
too.  But  all  sich  fellows  as  them  cares  fur  is  to  amuse 
themselves  making  love  to  every  pretty  girl  as  comes  in 
their  way." 

His  words  penetrated  to  the  girl's  womanhood.  "  Did 
he  not  tell  you  himself  that  we  met  here  simply  by  acci- 
dent?" she  demanded,  compelled  to  put  away  the  rigid 
pride  she  had  assumed  and  defend  herself. 

"And  what  does  that  signify,  Sally?"  returned  her 
lover,  glad  to  have  touched  her.  "  Couldn't  he  have  let 
you  go  your  way  an'  him  go  his'n?  What  does  he  give 
you  his  arm  fur,  an'  go  promenadin'  up  an'  down  this  old 
wall  as  sentimental  like  as  if  you  was  engaged  ?" 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours,  anyhow,  if  I  choose  to 
walk  with  a  gentleman?"  the  girl  exclaimed,  angrily,  a 
round  red  spot  coming  into  each  white  cheek. 

She  was  ambitious,  poor  thing  !  and  vain.  She  saw  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  aspire  to  win  for  a  husband  one 
of  the  dazzling  attorneys  if  others  did.  She  consciously 
felt  herself  to  be  superior  in  intellect,  at  least,  to  the 
young  ladies  on  the  hill,  whose  manner  toward  her  was 


7  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

marked  by  a  gracious  condescension  that  was  exceedingly 
exasperating.  Why  was  she  not  as  good  as  Evelyn  Clyde, 
or  that  doll-faced  Maggie?  Why  was  it,  my  discriminat- 
ing reader  ?  She  had  a  broader  and  deeper  nature  than 
either  of  those  damsels.  She  had  a  sharper  intelligence, 
a  bette.r  education,  and  even  a  richer  beauty.  But  she 
lacked  some  subtle  quality, — or  was  it  a  quality?  Per- 
haps it  was  simply  the  toning-down  of  all  the  qualities,  a 
something  which  in  music  is  the  "touch,"  in  painting 
the  "  tints"  and  "shading,"  the  fineness  of  expression. 

"You  began  with  being  jealous  of  Mr.  Burns,"  she 
continued,  rapidly.  "Because  he  gave  me  a  bunch  of 
wild-flowers  once  that  he  had  gathered  in  the  woods,  and 
because  he  took  me  up  in  his  buggy  one  day  when  I  had 
walked  out  to  Aunt  Jane's  and  the  wind  was  blowing  a 
hurricane.  And  now,  because  you  saw  Mr.  Courtenay 
walking  with  me  here " 

"  I  wouldn't  mind,  Sally,"  interrupted  her  lover,  depre- 
catingly,  "  if  he  meant  fair  and  honorable,  but  you  know 
yourself  he  goes  up  to  Deacon  Clyde's,  bold  an'  above 
board,  an'  pays  attention  to  Miss  Clyde, — takes  her  to 
meetin'  an'  places,  an1  acts  as  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  o'  her. 
If  he  likes  you  the  best,  what's  to  hinder  him  from  coming 
to  your  house  an'  talking  to  you  at  your  own  hearth-stone, 
or  walking  with  you  in  daylight?" 

He  was  silent,  and  the  girl  was  silent  too,  with  white, 
compressed  lips.  By  and  by  they  went  off  around  the 
corner  of  the  fort  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MR.  BURNS  turned  his  steps  slowly  homeward ;  he  had 
a  dread  of  meeting  his  companion.  His  companion, 
however,  appeared  to  have  no  dread  of  meeting  him  ;  he 
sat  comfortably  by  the  fire,  feet  elevated,  taking  a  political 
view  of  the  country  through  a  late  Eastern  paper. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


73 


"  I  think  the  affairs  of  the  nation  are  swinging  around 
into  something  like  order  and  settlement  again,  Charley," 
said  he,  throwing  the  paper  aside  and  reaching  to  the  table 
for  a  cigar. 

"  Do  you  think  so?" 

Mr.  Burns  stood  warming  his  hands  at  the  stove,  look- 
ing down  at  the  red  coals  in  the  grate.  He  felt  little 
enthusiasm  over  the  affairs  of  the  nation  just  then. 

"Yes,"  said  Burr.  "My  interest  in  politics  is  reviv- 
ing. In  my  youth  I  aspired  to  statesmanship,  thought 
the  acme  of  American  ambition  was  reached  in  the  Co- 
lumbian Capitol.  I  limited  my  aspirations  to  Congress 
in  those  days." 

"You  were  modest,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  unsmilingly. 

"  But  the  war  coming  on  destroyed  all  that,"  continued 
Burr. 

"  Or  rather,  the  statesman  was  merged  in  the  soldier," 
returned  Mr.  Burns,  a  recollection  of  his  friend's  past 
sweeping  over  him  and  relaxing  the  severity  of  his  face  a 
little.  There  was  much  in  that  past  to  call  for  admira- 
tion, and  for  the  tender,  chivalric  love  he  had  for  Burr. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Charley,  that  you  and  I  ought 
not  to  have  come  West,"  Burr  said.  "We  should  have 
stood  our  ground  among  the  men  we  were  educated  with, 
locked  horns  with  our  equals,  and  fought  an  even  contest 
with  the  world." 

"Have  I  not  said  so  a  thousand  times?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Burns,  aroused  out  of  himself.  It  was  so  exactly 
what  he  had  always  maintained  and  Burr  had  always  re- 
futed, that  he  felt  exasperated.  Besides,  if  Burr  gave  up 
it  .was  all  over  with  them.  He  had  accustomed  himself 
to  depend  so  much  upon  Burr,  even  against  his  own 
judgment.  He  continued,  excitedly,  "  We  came  out 
here  ahead  of  immigration  almost;  seized  the  one  self- 
ish right  of  possession,  and  are  obliged  to  fold  our  hands 
and  wait  for  everything  else  to  come  to  us.  There  is 
something  almost  magnificent,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  "  in  this  reckless  throwing  away  of  our  youth  and 
best  energies  !  I  feel  that  our  vitality  is  dead,  we  are  los- 
ing the  best  things  we  have  got, — our  youth,  our  strength, 
our  ambition." 


74  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

"I  fancied  we  were  saving  up  those  things  for  the  good 
time  coming,"  said  Burr,  with  his  usual  gentleness,  that 
was  hard  for  his  friend  to  bear  sometimes. 

"And  which  never  comes,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  Except  our  youth,"  continued  Burr,  a  little  sadly  ;  "  I 
begin  to  feel  that  that  is  slipping  away.  See  here  !  I  am 
getting  gray  hairs,  Charley." 

He  swept  back  the  black  waves  from  his  temples,  re- 
vealing fine  streaks  of  gray. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Burns ;  "  they  are  the  laurels  we 
won  in  the  army.  But  I  am  not  concerned  about  my 
gray  hairs,  except  as  they  rebuke  me  for  the  wasting  years, 
and  show  me  that  while  the  husk  is  withering  the  kernel 
also  is  shrinking  into  nothingness,  whereas  it  ought  to  be 
bursting  forth  in  the  fulness  and  ripeness  of  manhood. 
I  begrudged  the  four  years  we  spent  in  the  war,  the  waste 
of  time,  and  brain,  and  opportunity;  but  a  thousand 
times  more  I  regret  the  three  years  since  the  war." 

"  Charley,"  said  Burr,  arousing  himself  to  what  he  felt 
to  be  the  necessity  of  the  moment,  "  you  have  grown  as 
much  in  these  three  years,  I  venture  to  say,  as  in  any 
other  three  years  of  your  life.  When  I  first  knew  you 
you  were  a  hot-headed,  ambitious  youth  ;  confident,  im- 
patient, and  egotistic  (excuse  me).  You  were  eager  to 
revolutionize  the  world  and  set  it  upon  your  own  broad 
basis  of  free  thought,  liberal  education,  and  general  en- 
lightenment. If  you  had  gone  on  with  such  tremendous 
momentum  as  you  began,  you  would  have  had  a  mere 
mushroom  growth.  You  would  have  expended  yourself 
in  the  froth  of  enthusiasm  and  had  no  good  wine  left  in 
the  bottom  of  your  goblet.  As  it  is,  the  froth  has  had 
time  to  settle." 

"And  stagnate,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"A  candle  has  just  so  much  life  to  burn  away,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Courtenay  ;  "  so  has  a  man.  You  were  spend- 
ing yourself  too  fast.  Providence — as  Shakspeare  calls  the 
overruling  power  that  shapes  our  destinies — sa\v  that,  and 
so  these  quiet  years  were  thrust  upon  you.  The  war  itself 
was  timely,  with  respect  to  you." 

"You  reason,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "like  many  other  people 
I  have  known,  who  think  the  universe  revolves  around 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


75 


them,  and  that  the  Omnipotent  Ruler  occupies  Himself 
with  their  smallest  concerns;  bringing  about  storms  and 
sunshine,  war  and  death,  and  pestilence  and  prosperity, 
all  with  direct  reference  to  them  !  The  sublimest  picture 
of  egotism  the  world  can  show." 

"It  seems  so,"  said  Burr,  "and  perhaps  is  in  most 
cases.  But,  though  I  do  not  presume  to  suppose  that  the 
Supreme  Ruler  and  Director  of  all  things  has  a  personal 
supervision  over  even  the  stars  in  the  heavens,  yet  it 
pleases  my  geometrical  mind  to  believe  that  every  law 
and  regulation  and  combination  which  He  has  established 
regarding  the  minutest  things  in  creation  is  perfect  in  all 
its  relations  and  bearings.  This,  of  course,  proves  to  us 
my  comfortable  doctrine  that  everything  works  together 
for  our  good,  and  we  work  for  the  good  of  all.  The 
stars  may  have  a  particular  reason  of  their  own  for 
shining,  but  they  also  perform  the  minor  office  of  shining 
for  us.  The  rain  may  come  only  because  the  clouds  are 
full  of  it  and  are  obliged  to  pour  it  out;  but  it  blesses 
the  earth  and  us.  Can  you  not  see  the  perfect  law  run- 
ning through  it  all  ?  I  am  filled  with  profound  admira- 
tion ;  religion,  in  my  mind,  takes  the  form  of  perpetual 
praise  to  the  Creator  and  Sustainer  of  this  wonderful 
and  sublime  piece  of  machinery,  the  universe.  But  I  am 
diverging.  I  was  about  to  apply  the  weight  of  this  stu- 
pendous argument  to  yourself.  You  know  that  an  atom 
embodies  in  itself  the  whole  principle  which  the  bulk  of 
atoms  embodies.  The  bulk  is  simply  the  aggregate ;  what 
is  true  of  one  is  true  of  all  the  others,  and  vice  versa. 
What  is  true  of  the  grand  harmony  of  the  universe  is 
true  of  your  life,  unless  you  lay  violent  hands  upon  your 
own  destiny.  What  a  striking  thought,  that  man  is  the 
only  atom  in  all  the  harmonious  creation  who  is  capable 
of  making  a  discord  !  It  is  the  result  I  suppose  of  the 
gift  of  free-will  to  him." 

Eloquent  as  Mr.  Courtenay  was  when  occasion  de- 
manded, he  soon  tired  of  a  subject  like  this,  involving  so 
much  effort  of  thought. 

"Has  anything  especial  happened  to  you,  Charley? 
You  seem  depressed,"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
topic. 


76  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"Not  unusually,  do  I?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  the  feel- 
ing that  it  was  his  habitual  state  in  these  latter  years. 

"I  thought  so.  Everything  pleasant  at  the  deacon's, 
I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  get  your  business  transacted  ?" 

"No;  they  had  company.  The  Rev.  Kirkwood  and 
his  wife,  and  that  sprig  of  a  doctor  whom  we  have  seen 
sporting  a  cane  and  a  silk  tile." 

"  Ah  !  A  relative  of  the  Kirkwoods',  is  he  not?" 

"Yes;  a  nephew. Burr," — Mr.  Burns  turned  a 

grave  face  towards  his  friend, — "I  took  a  walk  down 
towards  the  river  and  came  home  by  the  fort  after  I  left 
the  deacon's." 

Burr  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  knocked  the 
ashes  off  the  end  of  it  carefully  with  his  forefinger. 

"Ah!"  said  he. 

"I  saw  you  walking  there  with  Sarah  Jenkins." 

"And  did  you  witness  the  tragic  finale  of  the  prom- 
enade?" he  asked,  without  change  of  expression,  except 
that  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  flashed  athwart  his  dark, 
half-closed  eyes. 

Mr.  Burns  felt  almost  as  helpless  against  his  implacable 
coolness  as  poor  Jim  Sites. 

"Why  don't  you  let  the  girl  alone,  Burr?  She  might 
marry  Sites  and  be  happy." 

"She  will,"  said  Burr.  "That  is,  she  will  marry  him, 
but  she  will  not  be  happy  with  him.  She  is  too  smart  for 
him." 

"  Well,  let  her  alone,  let  her  work  out  her  own  destiny. 
For  my  part,  Burr,  I  stand  appalled  before  the  ruins  men 
make  of  women's  lives!" 

"  Charley,  how  often  must  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  step 
out  of  my  way  to  interfere  with  any  person's  destiny?  I 
hold  that  the  sublime  laws  and  regulations  we  have  just 
been  discussing  will,  in  any  case,  control  my  course.  So 
I  move  along  as  harmoniously  as  I  can  through  all  the 
complications  of  this  wonderful  world."  Mr.  Burns  was 
too  indignant  to  reply.  "  Anyhow,"  said  Burr,  changing 
his  tactics,  "the  fellow  is  jealous  and  ill-bred,  and  needs 
a  lesson." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


77 


"  You  cannot  teach  him,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  You  only 
hurt  him  and  hurt  her.  You  may  be  laying  up  a  sorrow 
for  those  two  that  will  rankle  for  years." 

"Nonsense,  Charley!"  Burr  returned,  with  a  shrug. 
"She  will  explain  and  they  will  make  up  again,  and  un- 
derstand each  other  all  the  better.  I  met  Miss  Jenkins 
this  evening  by  pure  accident.  After  you  went  out  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  lonely  and  proposed  a  walk  to  my- 
self, and  put  on  my  overcoat  and  started  down  toward 
the  river.  I  passed  by  Deacon  Clyde's  and  saw  the  win- 
dows all  lighted  up,  and  would  have  gone  in  if  I  had  not 
discovered  that  there  were  strangers  there.  I  spent  some 
little  time  walking  up  and  down  the  river-bank  within 
hearing  of  the  falls.  Returning,  I  met  Miss  Jenkins 
coming  out  of  the  little  hut  occupied  by  old  Mother 
Dexter,  you  remember,  not  far  from  the  fort ;  and  the 
evening  being  pleasant  and  I  being  lonely,  and  she  being 
rather  pleased  to  meet  me  (I  thought),  I  turned  and 
offered  her  my  arm  for  a  promenade  under  the  shelter  of 
the  old  fort." 

"Sheltered  from  observation,  I  suppose  you  mean?" 
said  Mr.  B.urns. 

"No;  from  the  wind.  But  where  in  thunder  Sites 
could  have  come  from  is  more  than  I  am  able  to  conjec- 
ture!" 

"  Perhaps  he  came  on  purpose  to  meet  her,  knowing 
where  she  had  gone?" 

"  Perhaps ;  but  how  did  he  come  to  be  armed  ?" 
"I  should  think  that  would  be  a  lesson  to  you,  Burr; 
the  fellow  is  excitable,  he  might  have  blown  your  brains 
out." 

"  I  could  easily  have  disarmed  him,"  said  Burr.  "  And 
now,  Charley,  I  hope  I  have  explained  this  mysterious 
circumstance  to  your  entire  satisfaction.  Explanations 
are  damnable  !  don't  ask  me  for  any  more  of  them.  If 
a  man's  life  does  not  carry  out  his  principles,  no  explana- 
tion of  his  actions  will.  That  is  Emerson's  idea,  by  the 
way,  but  before  he  had  expressed  it  it  was  my  rule  and 
guide.  As  you  will  find,"  he  added,  "  if  some  'spiritual 
medium'  ever  takes  it  in  hand  to  write  my  private  biog- 
raphy." 


HIGH- WATER-MARK. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE  ball  which  Maggie  had  made  mention  of  came  up 
for  discussion  in  the  law-office  on  the  eve  of  it,  by  Burr's 
proposing  to  go  and  take  the  young  ladies. 

Mr.  Burns,  who  happened  to  feel  in  a  talkative  humor, 
remarked  that  it  was  strange,  seeing  that  dancing  had  met 
with  so  much  disapproval  from  certain  religious  bodies  as 
incompatible  with  a  healthy  spiritual  growth,  that  so  many 
people  who  have  been  church-members  in  the  East,  and 
consistent  with  church  rules,  consider  themselves  relieved 
of  all  restraint  in  the  matter  of  dancing  and  the  like  the 
moment  they  cross  the  Mississippi. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "in  that  our  Western 
emigrants  differ  widely  from  the  Pilgrim  fathers." 

"You  see,"  continued  Mr.  Burns,  "that  finding  no 
civilizing  influences  in  the  West,  it  seldom  occurs  to  us 
to  create  such  influences  among  ourselves." 

"All  Christian  religion,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "is  of 
course  founded  upon  the  Bible.  But  how  many  Chris- 
tians, do  you  suppose,  take  root  in  the  truths  of  Scripture? 
How  many  who  are  not  merely  the  outgrowth  of  churches 
and  societies?  People's  lives  are  governed  by  circum- 
stances; it  is  only  here  and  there  along  the  stream  of 
religion  or  politics,  or  any  social  concern,  that  we  find  a 
man  whose  feet  touch  bottom.  Very  few  act  from  prin- 
ciple, they  simply  follow  where  others  lead.  It  is  true 
that  in  most  momentous  things  people  have  got  to  move 
en  masse,  but  even  then  there  is  a  difference  in  merely 
going  with  the  tide  and  realizing  an  individual  responsi- 
bility in  the  movement.  I  think  it  would  be  only  fair 
and  just  to  require  every  man  to  stand  upon  his  own  basis, 
and  not  blindly  hang  upon  another." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "you  can't  get  rid  of  respon- 
sibility by  shaking  people  off.  There  are  only  a  few  who 
have  stamina  enough  to  stand  alone,  and  they  have  got  to 
take  their  weak  brethren  upon  their  backs.  If  you  have 
light  you  must  let  it  shine ;  many  of  us  can  only  see  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  79 

thing  by  having  it  pointed  out  to  us.  Herein  lies  both 
your  power  and  your  responsibility.  We  all  like  to  feel 
that  we  have  influence  ;  but  influence  as  controlling  only 
men's  actions  is  a  weak  thing.  Point  out  a  principle  and 
you  have  accomplished  something.  A  live  seed  planted 
in  a  garden  is  better  than  all  the  flowers  plucked  and 
strewn  over  its  paths.  I  agree  with  you,  that  no  man  has 
a  right  to  hang  upon  you  blindly  ;  let  him  make  your 
principles  his  principles,  and  your  motives  his  motives, 
if  he  will,  and  then  you  are  free  of  him.  You  are  account- 
able for  your  own  life  and  actions,  not  for  other  men's. 
We  must  each  act  from  a  point  within  ourself.  I  do  not 
doubt  that  it  is  a  crime  for  many  people  to  dance  ;  it  out- 
rages their  conception  of  religion  and  their  most  sacred 
feelings.  If  they  persist,  they  will  harden  and  demoralize 
themselves,  because  they  go  against  conscience.  People 
may  sin  against  a  law  that  exists  only  in  themselves, 
nevertheless  they  sin.  For  our  lives  are  only  perfect  in 
as  far  as  they  agree  with  our  convictions  of  right.  The 
law — I  mean  our  learned  profession — deals  only  in  the 
broadest  generalities,  and  touches  men  only  in  their  ex- 
tremity. The  law  in  us  is  what  must  govern  and  control 
us,  and  we  sin  whenever  we  break  it." 

"You  make  every  man's  conscience,  then,  his  rule 
and  guide,"  said  Burr.  "  How  does  that  work  when 
some  devoted  fanatic  gets  it  into  his  head  that  it  is  his 
duty,  and  will  be  a  benefit  to  society,  to  put  a  fellow- 
being  out  of  the  world  ?  What  did  Virginia  think  of 
John  Brown  ?  What  did  the  world  think  of  Wilkes 
Booth?" 

"They  put  themselves  into  juxtaposition  with  the 
supreme  law,  and  were  crushed  by  it.  These  things  are 
not  all  properly  adjusted,  of  course,  or  rather,  we  are  not 
properly  adjusted  to  the  general  law  and  regulations.  I 
have  a  fancy  that  it  took  the  stars  and  other  heavenly 
bodies  a  good  while  to  fall  into  their  proper  and  harmo- 
nious places;  even  yet  we  are  sometimes  warned  of  danger 
to  our  earth  by  some  unruly  comet  that  has  got  out  of  its 
way  and  threatens  to  jostle  us.  Mankind  is  a  universe, 
and  every  individual  man,  like  every  individual  planet,  has 
his  orbit,  and  no  one  has  a  right  to  crowd  him  out  of  it." 


8o  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"Well,  what  about  the  dance?"  said  Burr. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  go,"  Mr.  Burns  returned. 

"Why  not;  have  you  any  scruples?" 

"  Yes.  I  scruple  to  make  myself  ridiculous.  You  and 
I,  Burr,  are  getting  pretty  well  up  in  years  to  be  still 
'tripping  the  light  fantastic  toe.'  When  nature  has 
added  to  our  manhood  the  dignity  of  gray  hairs,  it  seems 
to  me  high  time  to  give  up  youthful  follies.  And  I  mean 
to  do  it  gracefully." 

"Teach  me  how!"  said  Burr,  with  mock  humility. 

"  Certainly.  Rise  superior  to  them.  Dismiss  them 
with  a  wave  of  your  hand  and  say,  '  I  have  done  with 
you.'  Don't  wait  until  the  next  generation  sweeps  you 
off  the  floor ;  save  your  dignity  while  you  can,  by  step- 
ping up  higher." 

"  There  is  time  enough  yet  for  that,"  said  Burr,  a  little 
uneasily  ;  any  reference  to  his  years  touched  him  in  a  sen- 
sitive spot. 

"  I  don't  think,  Charley,  we  ever  did  much  dancing  in 
the  '  light  fantastic'  manner  !"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  it  is  too  active  an  exercise,"  laughed  Mr.  Burns. 
"  I  have  walked  through  a  few  cotillons,  but  never  essayed 
a  'round'  dance  in  my  life.  But  you,"  he  added, 
"  used  to  waltz,  you  remember,  when  we  were  in  the 
army,  or  rather  when  we  were  in  camp." 

As  though  the  remark  had  touched  some  unhappy  rem- 
iniscence, a  silence  followed,  and  a  cloud  settled  on 
both  the  young  men's  spirits. 

By  and  by,  Mr.  Courtenay  arose  and  shook  it  off.  It 
was  growing  late. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say?  Shall  we  do  ourselves  the 
honor  of  escorting  the  young  ladies?  If  so,  we  had  bet- 
ter go  up  this  evening  and  invite  them." 

"I  shall  not  do  myself  the  honor,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"In  that  case,  I  think  1  will  venture  to  invite  them 
both,  and  trust  to  you  to  change  your  mind  and  take 
Miss  Maggie  off  my  hands." 

"My  mind  is  irrevocably  made  up,"  returned  Mr. 
Burns.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  he  added,  as  Mr.  Courtenay 
made  himself  ready  to  step  out,  "  that  you  are  rather  late 
with  your  invitation." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  8 1 

But  Burr,  whom  much  adulation  had  made  a  little  vain, 
like  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  made  his  own  conditions.  He 
went  up  to  the  deacon's,  but  did  not  commit  himself  to 
the  avowed  purpose  of  going  to  invite  the  young  ladies 
to  attend  the  dance,  but  ostensibly  to  spend  the  evening. 
His  manner  was  the  farthest  remove  from  Mr.  Burns's 
outspoken  bluntness.  He  scrupled  to  make  his  attentions 
to  Miss  Clyde  appear  pointed,  even  to  herself.  He  rarely 
escorted  her  to  places  of  public  entertainment,  but  con- 
trived in  his  diplomatic  way  to  take  advantage  of  what- 
ever occasion  offered  him  the  pleasure  of  her  society, — • 
and  her  preference. 

Her  preference,  however,  was  not  marked,  except  by  a 
proud  acceptance  of  his  attentions  and  equally  proud  in- 
difference to  the  attentions  of  other  gentlemen  ;  a  dis- 
tinction very  gratifying  to  Mr.  Courtenay's  vanity.  He 
was  an  epicure  in  such  matters,  appreciating  the  most  del- 
icate shades  of  flattery,  and  relishing  what  was  especially 
rare  and  sweet. 

As  he  sat  in  the  deacon's  parlor  the  subject  of  the  ball 
came  up,  and  he  remarked  : 

"You  attend,  I  presume?" 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  laughing  and  blushing,  and  look- 
ing across  at  Evelyn  ;  "  one  might  as  well  be  frank,  we 
have  nobody  to  take  us." 

"That  is  lamentable,"  said  he.  "If  an  escort  is  all 
that  is  lacking,  I  might  presume  to  offer  myself." 

Maggie  was  overwhelmed  by  the  effect  of  her  audacity. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Courtenay  !  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  ask 
us,"  she  said,  helplessly.  "I  didn't  think  how  it  would 
sound." 

Will  any  one  doubt  that  Mr.  Courtenay  himself  had 
brought  it  all  about,  exactly  as  he  had  planned  ?  Having 
made  his  point  he  swept  the  subject  aside  gracefully,  help- 
ing Maggie  out  of  her  embarrassment. 

Nothing  further  was  said  about  the  ball  until  he  was 
taking  leave  of  Evelyn  at  the  hall-door.  He  had  stepped 
out  and  turned  to  say  "good-night." 

"  Shall  I  come  and  chaperon  you  to-morrow  evening?" 
he  asked. 

"  Why,  yes,  if  you  please,"  Evelyn  returned,  a  delicate 
D* 


82  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

flush  mounting  her  cheek.  She  stood  straight  and  slender 
and  tall  in  the  door-way,  with  the  moonlight  streaming 
over  her  and  softening  her  beautifully  cut  features.  It 
was  her  lily-like  stateliness  and  maidenliness  that  Burr 
admired.  He  would  no  more  have  broken  through  the 
thin  fibre  of  delicate  reserve  that  divided  them  than  he 
would  "  brush  the  down  from  the  peach  or  the  dew  from 
the  rose."  He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers  and  held 
it  a  moment  lightly,  and  then  said  "good-night,"  and 
walked  away. 

It  was  the  nearest  approach  to  familiarity  he  had  ever 
allowed  himself  to  make  toward  her,  and  he  enjoyed  the 
thought  that  no  one  save  himself  could  presume  so  much, 
even,  as  that. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  dancing-hall  had  been  lighted  up  some  hours 
(there  is  always  a  share  of  the  populace  who  like  to  begin 
a  thing  early  and  get  the  most  of  it),  and  the  'music 
floated  across  the  street  to  where  Mr.  Burns  sat  alone  in 
his  office,  endeavoring  to  ignore  it  by  assiduous  study. 

But  life  must  be  seasoned  a  little,  and  we  have  got  to 
take  what  spices  we  can  get. 

Had  Mr.  Burns  been  living  in  New  York  City  he 
doubtless  would  have  displayed  a  fastidious  taste;  he 
would  have  flavored  the  evening  with  something  fine,  a 
Booth  or  a  Beecher. 

As  it  was,  after — as  I  have  said — some  hours  of  diffi- 
cult study,  he  was  moved  to  go  up  and  look  on  at  the 
dancers. 

The  "  hall"  was  up-stairs  over  a  dry -goods  store. 

He  flung  on  his  cloak  and,  crossing  the  street,  ascended 
a  flight  of  steps  running  up  on  the  outside  of  the  build- 
ing, intending  to  remain  among  the  bystanders,  who 
always  clustered  around  the  door  and  sat  upon  the  steps 
of  the  orchestral  platform. 

But  he  was  endowed  with  too  delicate  an  organization 
for  tobacco  and  coarse  slang,  and  soon  detached  himself 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  83 

from  the  motley  throng  and  wended  his  way  to  the  upper 
and  more  exclusive  end  of  the  hall,  where  stood  Burr 
with  Miss  Clyde  and  Maggie,  they  having  come  in  at  a 
late  and  fashionable  hour. 

Of  all  the  things  that  travel  in  the  train  of  emigration, 
etiquette,  perhaps,  keeps  nearest  the  van  ;  and  fashion, 
and  style,  and  all  those  high-toned  divinities,  hold  up 
their  sceptres  on  the  plain  and  in  the  wilderness. 

Mr.  Burns  approaching  Burr's  group,  hat  in  hand, 
threw  back  his  cloak  and  paid  the  usual  compliments. 

Maggie  bowed  to  him  with  a  poor  little  attempt  at  stiff- 
ness, which  he  made  no  effort  to  dispel. 

Dr.  Webster  was  there  and  appeared  to  be  paying  some 
attention  to  Maggie.  Mr.  Burns  inwardly  determined  to 
encourage  him  in  that.  Looking  at  the  young  doctor 
dispassionately,  he  could  not  help  considering  him  a  very 
good  match  for  Maggie. 

However,  when  he  offered  her  his  arm  with  an  easy, 
deferential  assurance,  and  led  her  away  to  join  in  the 
Lancers  just  then  forming  on  the  floor,  Mr.  Burns  gave  a 
contemptuous  shrug,  and  went  over  and  sat  down  upon  a 
long  bench  against  the  wall  and  watched  the  dancers, 
with  curved  lip  and  the  Poe's  Raven  expression. 

Of  all  ridiculous  dances  the  Lancers  appeared  to  him, 
at  that  moment,  the  most  so.  The  profuse  bowing  was 
burlesqued  by  the  many  ungraceful  figures  engaged  in  it, 
and  the  whole  scene  seemed,  to  his  disenchanted  eyes, 
the  silliest  farce.  He  thought  of  what  De  Quincey  has 
written  ;  that  from  the  spectacle  of  certain  dances  he 
derived  "the  very  grandest  form  of  passionate  sadness 
which  can  be  derived  from  any  spectacle  whatsoever." 

At  one  time  in  his  life  Mr.  Burns  had  been  grateful  to 
De  Quincey  for  giving  expression — and  countenance — to 
his  own  elevated  emotions  amid  dancing  and  festal  music. 
Had  the  scales  fallen  forever  from  his  eyes?  Was  he  no 
longer  capable  of  fine  elevation  of  feeling  ? 

The  dance  ended,  they  all  came  up  and  gathered 
around  him,  making  him  a  sort  of  nucleus  for  their  exclu- 
sive little  party. 

They  praised  the  music,  which  was  unusually  fine, — a 
clarinet  being  added  to  the  local  string-band,  played  by 


84  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

a  grave,  handsome  young  man  whom  nobody  seemed  to 
know. 

Burr  inquired — at  Miss  Clyde's  instigation — of  a  dry- 
goods  clerk  who  approached  the  group,  anxious  to  secure 
Maggie  for  the  next  dance. 

"  Don't  know  his  name, — he's  from  Winchester. 
Splendid  player, — ain't  he?"  said  the  young  fellow. 

"  He  does  very  well,"  said  Burr,  distantly. 

"  Well,  sir,  they  say  he  was  nothing  but  a  blacksmith's 
'prentice  a  few  years  ago  !" 

"Impossible?"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "Pray,  what  raised 
him  to  his  present  elevation  ?" 

"Genius,  I  s'pose.  He  never  had  any  teaching;  just 
got  him  a  horn  and  went  at  it." 

In  the  mean  time  the  young  man  had  come  down  from 
the  orchestra,  leaving  his  instrument,  and  button-holed  a 
manager  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear.  Where- 
upon the  manager  brought  him  up  and  introduced  him  to 
Maggie,  whom  he  solicited  for  a  waltz. 

Maggie  was  not  taken  wholly  unawares ;  she  had 
caught  the  stranger's  eyes  several  times  and  thought  them 
like  Mr.  Burns's ;  which  that  haughty  young  gentleman 
would  doubtless  have  resented. 

She  took  his  arm,  with  a  blush,  and  moved  away. 

The  dry-goods  clerk,  having  lost  his  opportunity,  saun- 
tered off,  chagrined. 

"  Did  you  catch  his  name?"  asked  Miss  Clyde,  turning 
to  Mr.  Burns. 

"No,"  said  he.  "And  I  suppose  it  does  not  matter; 
he  is  some  young  fellow  who  knows  nothing  but  his 
music,  doubtless." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Burr,  to  whom  the  manager 
had  been  speaking.  "  I  have  just  ascertained  his  name 
to  be  Dale,  of  the  '  Winchester  Independent;'  he  is  an 
editor,  you  see,  as  well  as  a  musician." 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "he  blows  his 
own  trumpet  in  either  case." 

Dr.  Webster,  turning  to  Miss  Clyde,  and  offering  his 
arm,  said,  "  Shall  we  try  this?"  and  led  her  away  to  join 
the  circle  of  waltzers. 

Proud  Miss  Clyde,  she  was  called  far  and  near;  the  most 


HIGH-  WA  TER-  MARK.  85 

beautiful  figure,  the  most  graceful  waltzer  of  all  the  whirl- 
ing throng.  Burr  sat  down  beside  Mr.  Burns,  his  eyes 
following  her.  The  music  was  a  full,  undulating  harmony 
that  seemed  to  sweep  the  light  forms  off  their  feet,  and 
bear  them  along  with  graceful,  rhythmic  motion.  Oh, 
power  of  beauty  and  of  music  !  Never  before  as  in  that 
reeling,  dizzying,  graceful,  enchanting  motion  had  Miss 
Clyde  so  touched  the  heart  (or  imagination)  of  the  man 
she  so  longed  to  win.  Was  it  love?  A  thousand  mar- 
riages have  been  born  of  a  waltz.  Even  Mr.  Burns  was 
impressed. 

"A  very  pretty  exercise  for  young  persons, ' '  he  remarked, 
sagely.  "  We  all  have  to  pass  through  the  realms  of 
enchantment  once  in  our  life,  I  suppose.  Though  I  must 
say,  my  fairyland  seldom  took  the  shape  of  a  ball-room. 
I  remember  only  one  or  two  occasions  when  I  was  carried 
away  with  a  thing  of  this  kind." 

"Well,"  said  Burr,  "I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you, 
privately,  that  1  never  got  upon  the  floor  in  my  life,  and 
began  to  spin  around  like  that,  that  I  did  not  feel  it  a  sort 
of  stepping  down  from  the  dignified  estate  of  manhood." 

"Do  you  confess  so  much?"  laughed  Mr.  Burns.  "I 
never  experienced  that  feeling  until  the  thing  was  over; 
my  enthusiasm  carried  me  through." 

"  I  never  could  get  up  any  enthusiasm,"  said  Burr. 

A  few  moments  later  Mr.  Burns  arose  and  gathered  his 
cloak  around  him. 

"I  am  going  home,"  he  explained. 

" No?"  said  Burr.  " Stay,  and  take  Miss  Maggie  over 
to  supper." 

"I  don't  think  my  services  are  required,"  said  Mr. 
Burns,  significantly. 

The  waltzing  had  ceased,  and  the  interesting  stranger 
was  slowly  leading  Maggie  back  to  her  place,  his  head 
inclined  toward  her,  busily  talking. 

Some  fellow  in  Mr.  Burns's  vicinity  remarked,  in  an 
audible  voice,  "That  'ere  chap  from  Winchester,  'at 
plays  the  clar'net,  's  a  married  man." 

"Well,  what  ef  he  is?"  said  a  companion. 

"Oh,  nothin' ;  only  he  seems  purty  sweet  on  Miss 
Atherton." 

8 


8  6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Mr.  Burns  glanced  angrily  around  at  the  speaker,  who 
returned  his  look  with  a  blank,  good-natured  stare.  The 
manager  called  out  "  supper,"  and  Burr  brought  the  young 
ladies'  wraps,  having  to  go  across  the  street  to  the  hotel 
for  refreshments.  The  Winchester  gentleman  was  still 
hovering  around  Maggie.  Mr.  Burns  made  a  sudden  re- 
solve, and  went  up  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  take  you  over  to  supper?"  said 
he,  not  in  the  gentlest  tone,  utterly  ignoring  her  com- 
panion, who  immediately  bowed  himself  away. 

Maggie  looked  up  with  a  glad  heart-bound  and  as- 
sented, her  little  air  of  stiffness  vanishing  in  the  sunshine 
of  his  presence.  Returning  to  the  ball-room  after  supper, 
Mr.  Burns  at  once  excused  himself  and  went  home. 


CHAPTER   X. 

MR.  BURNS  turned  up  the  light  in  the  office,  and  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  sickened  and  disgusted  with  the 
sawing  of  the  violins  and  loud  "catling"  of  the  leader  of 
the  band  across  the  way.  It  helped  him  to  see — this  paltry 
ball,  by  its  miserable  mockery  of  pleasure,  or  rather  by  its 
cheap  imitation  of  what  many  people  hold  to  be  the 
highest  pleasure — the  poverty  and  emptiness  of  this 
world. 

If  pleasure — light,  fantastic  enjoyment — could  wear  a 
covering  so  complete  as  to  hide  the  skeleton  beneath,  it 
might  be  endured.  But  this  wretched  make-believe  was 
unbearable.  When  Burr  came  in  an  hour  later,  he  sat 
wakefully  by  the  fire. 

"Why,  how  is  it,"  Burr  asked,  cheerfully,  glad  to  feel 
the  warmth  of  the  office,  "  that  you  are  not  in  bed?" 

"Who  could  sleep  with  that  damned  fiddling  going 
on  over  yonder?"  Mr.  Burns  returned,  with  unwonted 
profanity. 

Burr  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  stove,  and  sat  down.  "  The 
fiddling  wasn't  bad,"  said  he. 

By  and  by,  Mr.  Burns  remarked  :    "I  have  been  think- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  87 

ing,  Burr,  that  it  is  a  misfortune  for  a  man  to  leave  all 
the  friends  of  his  youth  behind  him  in  the  march  of  life. 
The  tenderest  associations  we  ever  know  are  those  that 
cluster  round  our  boyhood.  But  as  we  advance  we  think 
it  is  smart  to  outgrow  them,  to  launch  ourselves  upon  the 
wide  world  and  cut  loose  from  our  early  loves,  and  say, 
with  so  much  wisdom  (never  thinking  how  crushing  the 
words  may  be  to  those  still  living  in  the  dream  we  have 
awakened  from),  'Time  flies,  dreams  vanish,  and  bubbles 
burst.'  As  if  there  is  anything  more  beautiful,  or  more 
substantial,  even,  in  this  earth,  than  those  dreams  and 
bubbles  !  I  would  to  God  I  had  mine  back  again." 

"A  foolish  wish,  Charley,"  said  Burr;  "you  can't 
keep  them;  they  are  too  fleeting;  they  go  as  the  years 
go." 

Mr.  Burns  got  up  and  went  to  the  table,  and  took  out 
of  his  portfolio  a  little  scrap  of  printed  paper  and  read, — 

"  '  When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green  ; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen  ; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  around  the  world  away ! 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

" '  When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad. 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 
And  all  the  sports  are  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down  ; 
Creep  home  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among; 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  were  young.' " 

"Very  pretty — in  spirit,"  said  Burr,  "though  a  little 
homely  in  garb." 

"It  contains  the  whole  poetry  of  life,"  Mr.  Burns  as- 
serted, and  sat  musing  long  after  Burr  had  gone  to  sleep. 
He  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  his  memory  went 
back  to  the  little  village  where  his  boyhood  had  been  spent, 
alive  with  scenes  and  faces,  and  friends  whose  truth  had 
inspired  him  with  faith  in  God  and  man.  Not  one  was 
left  to  him. 


SECOND   BOOK. 


CHAPTER  XL 

[It  is  rather  bungling  to  break  off  the  thread  and  tie  a  knot  in  the  skein 
one  is  winding,  but  take  my  word  for  it  that  in  this  case  it  is  expedient, 
my  kind  reader.] 

SNUGLY  cuddled  out  of  the  reach  of  high  winds  among 
low,  sandy  hills  covered  chiefly  with  scrubby  red-oaks 
and  hazel-brush,  in  a  certain  section  of  that  vague,  vast 
country  called  the  "  West"  in  a  wholesale  way  (but  about 
whose  latitude  and  longitude  it  is  not  needful  to  be  pre- 
cise), a  few  hundred  miles  beyond  where  the  sun  sets  over 
the  Blue  Ridge  and  Catskill  Mountains;  and  so  old,  and 
so  settled  and  populated,  that  "  West,"  as  applied  to  it, 
was  no  longer  synonymous  with  "new," — so  old  indeed 
that  civilization  had  folded  its  hands  and  dropped  asleep 
as  having  nothing  more  to  do,  rustled  the  little  town  of 
Hazelville,  to  which  Mr.  Burns's  memory  in  its  sad  pil- 
grimage went  back.  It  was  not  distinguished  in  its  ap- 
pearance from  many  another  small  town  in  its  vicinity  ;  it 
had  the  same  sleepy,  general  expression,  the  same  settled, 
satisfied,  changeless  air.  Architecture  had  not  touched 
it,  nor  painter's  brush  marred  the  sanctity  of  wall,  post, 
or  sign-board  for  a  generation,  except  in  one  instance 
where  dry-goods  and  notions  were  advertised  in  new  and 
glaring  colors  upon  an  old  building. 

The  school,  built  of  hewn  logs,  bore — upon  the  outside 
at  least — no  sign  of  progress ;  and  the  squatty,  old-fash- 
ioned church  commanded  the  same  veneration  it  did  in 
its  earlier  and  palmier  days,  and  was  filled  to  overflowing 
of  a  Sunday,  though  its  battered  walls  resounded  to  no 
new  thing  in  the  way  of  preaching,  any  more  than  they 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  89 

resounded  to  the  stroke  of  hammer  in  the  way  of  re- 
pairing. Perhaps  one  would  have  been  considered  as 
sacrilegious  as  the  other. 

A  couple  of  peaks  rise  above  the  sandy  hills  surrounding 
Hazelville,  and  are  christened  respectively — and  suggest- 
ively— Big  and  Little  Twin,  or,  banded  together,  Twin 
Points.  There  are  some  points  of  difference  between 
them :  where  one  is  grassy  and  slopes  far  out  into  sur- 
rounding meadows,  inviting  to  cool,  shady  nooks  on  its 
terraces,  the  other  is  steep  and  rocky,  and  discouraging 
to  Young  Ambition  aspiring  to  its  summit  (except  initiated 
Young  Ambition  which  knows  a  meandering  path  leading 
to  the  topmost  crag  through  many  inspiring  difficulties). 
And  where  one  spreads  out  many  a  broad,  low  oak,  like 
an  umbrella  in  the  sun,  the  other  rears  its  bleak,  bald 
head  against  the  sky,  defying  sun  and  storm. 

There  is  a  little  silver  stream  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  hills  barely  affording  water  for  a  mill-race.  Across 
this  small  stream  is  a  dam  of  brush  and  stones  that  has 
to  be  crossed  to  reach  the  twins.  The  race  is  bridged  by 
a  couple  of  logs  thrown  across  it. 

In  the  early  autumn  twilight — twilight  comes  very  early 
down  in  the  hollows,  though  the  sun  still  gilds  the  hill- 
tops— we  may  discern  two  people,  one  a  man  with  a  boy's 
smooth  face  and  stripling  form,  the  other  a  young  girl, 
crossing  the  dam  hand  in  hand. 

"  Come,"  said  the  youth,  grasping  the  girl's  hand  with 
a  tighter  pressure  and  striding  forward,  "  let  us  make  haste 
or  the  sun  will  be  down  before  we  reach  the  top  of  Little 
Twin,  and  I  don't  want  to  miss  it  to-night ;  it  is  my  last 
chance  for  a  good  many  months,  you  know.  I  shall  not 
have  time  to-morrow  night.  You  can  come  up  here  any 
night,"  he  added.  "You  and  Fred,  or  Miss  Barker." 
The  last  with  a  half-humorous,  half-sarcastic  curl  of  the 
lip. 

"I  shall  not  come  here  again  until  you  come  home," 
his  companion  returned,  decidedly. 

"I  should  think  you  would,  Wilma!"  reproachfully. 
"I  know  I  should.  I  like  to  look  at  your  picture  and 
everything  that  can  remind  me  of  you  when  I  am  away 
from  you." 

8* 


go  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  need  anything  to  remind  me,  Char- 
ley; I  think  of  you  all  the  time  anyhow." 

She  clasped  his  arm  suddenly  with  both  her  little  brown 
hands,  and  looked  up  with  such  a  pretty  mingling  of  shy- 
ness and  frankness,  a  vivid  blush  spreading  itself  over  her 
face  (and  besides  it  was  such  a  gratifying  thing  to  have 
said),  that  the  young  man,  with  a  quick,  responsive  glow, 
bent  his  rather  proud  head  and  kissed  the  lips  that  said  it. 

Hitherto  one  might  have  thought  him  a  brother,  care- 
lessly kind,  helping  her  not  very  gently — not  so  very 
gently  as  a  lover  might — over  the  stones.  Now,  however, 
a  sudden  tenderness  drew  them  together. 

Charley  half  forgot  his  hurry,  and  they  walked  linger- 
ingly  and  in  silence,  feeling  that  exquisite  nearness  to 
each  other  that  comes  only  at  intervals  even  between 
lovers,  especially  lovers  of  several  years'  standing  like 
these. 

The  young  man  felt  his  pulses  thrill  with  an  unusual 
gladness.  Wilma  seldom  gave  him  so  frank  an  assurance 
of  her  loyalty,  thinking  perhaps,  with  maidenly  reserve  and 
it  might  be  a  dash  of  maidenly  coquetry,  that  it  was  his 
part  to  do  the  love-making.  He  had  had  many  misgivings 
about  her  depth  of  feeling,  and  believed  with  keen  regret 
that  in  the  mutual  interchange  of  affection  he  gave  much 
more  than  he  received.  He  had  strong  faith  in  his  own 
power  of  discernment,  and  was  sure  that  his  eyes  pierced 
to  the  bottom  of  Wilma's  soul;. and  though  it  pleased 
him  that  the  pool  was  clear  and  pure,  and  that  its  sweet 
waters  had  no  outlet  but  in  him,  he  regretted  that  it  was 
not  deeper,  and  felt  with  some  bitterness  that  the  depths 
of  his  own  tenderness  would  never  be  fully  known  be- 
cause of  her  incapacity.  It  never  occurred  to  his  loyal 
heart  that  he  might  break  his  boyish  contract  and  seek 
for  a  wife  one  who  could  be  more  to  him  than  she  could 
be.  He  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  replacing  his 
mother  with  some  other  woman. 

As  for  Wilma  no  misgiving  disturbed  her.  The  current 
of  her  days  and  years  swept  as  smoothly  on  as  a  meadow 
brook,  and  Charley's  love  was  security  for  all  her  future. 
It  was  the  green  banks  hemming  in  the  narrow,  happy 
stream  of  her  life;  the  flowers  growing  on  its  edges  all 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  g  i 

the  way  down  to  where  it  widened  into  a  mystic  eternity ; 
the  stars  shining  above  and  the  blue  sky.  Charley's  love 
was  all  this. 

But  perhaps  she  accepted  it  too  much  as  she  accepted 
the  sunshine  and  all  natural  blessings,  with  a  deep,  silent 
gratitude  that  she  herself  was  scarcely  conscious  of.  And 
Charley  did  not  like  to  give  his  heart's  wealth  and  have 
it  taken  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Love  is  a  costly  gift,  and  however  carelessly  accepted, 
there  will  come  a  time  when  the  receiver  will  learn  the 
value  of  it. 

Wilma  was  a  dreamer,  as  perhaps  most  of  us  are,  and 
it  would  take  a  shock  to  waken  her.  And  shocks  will 
inevitably  come  when  there  is  anything  to  be  unearthed. 
Pity  that  they  must  so  rack  and  unnerve  us,  leaving  us 
forever  after  with  a  stinging  sense  of  our  weakness. 

It  is  a  very  ingenious  saying,  He  tempers  the  wind  to 
the  shorn  lamb.  It  is  so  true  of  each  of  us  that  just  such 
storms  will  come  as  are  needed  to  unfold  us.  "  He  tem- 
pers the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  but  He  tempers  it  to 
the  oak  sapling  as  well,  and  it  is  tossed  and  buffetted,  and 
it  grows  and  develops. 

Perhaps  a  human  being  differs  from  an  oak  sapling  in 
this,  that  the  former  invites  the  storm  by  its  own  tossing. 
Or  (for  we  know  that  the  tempest  sweeps  over  the  whole 
forest)  perhaps  the  tempering  is  in  the  heart  and  fibre  of 
the  tree  itself.  And  it  may  be  that  the  same  winds  blow 
over  and  search  out  all  hearts  alike,  only  that  some  have 
deeper  caverns  and  longer  and  louder  echoes. 

So  He  does  not  temper  the  wind,  He  tempers  us.  He 
does  not  leave  us  more  helpless  than  the  vessel  that  ad- 
justs its  sails  and  has  power  to  right  itself  when  the 
billows  roll. 

By  and  by  Wilma  said,  looking  down,  "  Charley,  you 
don't  know  how  I  dread  going  off  to  school !" 

"What !     Not  discouraged?"  said  Charley,  surprised. 

"Oh,  no!  Of  course  I  want  to  go ;  I  have  dreamed 
about  it  all  my  life,  you  know.  Bat  to  think  of  the  great, 
strange  school ;  I  shall  feel  so  awkward  and  out  of  place." 

"Little  goose!"  said  Charley,  laughing  and  pressing 
her  closer  to  his  side,  while,  with  a  sort  of  patronizing 


9  2  HIGH- WATER- MARK. 

affectionateness,  he  slipped  his  slender,  student  fingers 
under  her  chin,  and  bent  his  head  again  to  kiss  the 
cherry-red  lips.  "  My  little  jewel  only  needs  polishing 
to  make  it  the  brightest  of  gems,"  said  he.  And  Wilma, 
accustomed  to  such  pretty  compliments  and  unspoiled  by 
them,  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  Charley  should 
say  so,  without  the  least  vain  consciousness  that  it  was  so. 
There  was  not  any  danger  of  her  overrating  herself;  her 
home-training  had  cultivated  her  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. Her  mother,  fearful  of  encouraging  vanity  in  her 
children,  constantly  depreciated  instead  of  praising  them. 

Wilma  had  not  a  doubt  that  in  the  academy  she  was 
about  to  enter  she  would  be  the  least  brilliant  of  all  the 
students.  They  crossed  the  race  upon  the  logs,  and  again 
Charley  tightened  his  clasp  of  the  hand,  and  drew  it 
within  his  arm  with  a  tender  impulse. 

"  No,  no,  darling,  you  must  keep  a  brave  spirit !  The 
great,  strange  school  will  not  seem  such  a  formidable 
thing  after  you  have  entered  it.  You  have  no  idea  how 
the  mountains  dwindle  away  when  you  come  close  up  to 
them.  I  know  just  how  it  is;  I  had  that  same  feeling 
myself  before  I  went  to  the  university." 

"  And  now  you  are  one  of  the  '  most  promising  young 
men*  there!"  said  Wilma,  looking  up  at  him  proudly. 
"I  heard  the  minister  tell  mother  that." 

"  Nonsense  !  What  does  the  minister  know  about  it  ?" 
said  Charley.  "  I  look  upon  these  school-days  of  ours, 
Wilma,  as  the  bridge  that  divides  us  from  each  other  and 
our  sweet  by  and  by." 

"It  is  a  very  long  bridge,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  and 
again  he  felt  his  pulses  thrill  at  the  unusualness  of  her 
emotion.  Could  it  be  there  was  more  depth  than  he  had 
imagined  ?  Did  she  really  care  so  much  for  him  ? 

He  wound  his  arm  gently  about  her  waist.  "It  is  a 
long  bridge,  darling ;  but  then  you  know  I  love  you  al- 
ways, and  am  looking  forward  to  the  happy  future  I  am 
trying  to  make  for  you, — for  us  both.  I  am  shaping  my 
life  to  that  end.  But  we  must  '  'bide  a  wee'  :  this  long 
separation  is  as  hard  for  me  as  for  you,  my  dear." 

Close  following  the  words  was  the  pungent  reflection 
that  it  was  perhaps  harder,  and  he  ended  with  a  sigh. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


93 


They  climbed  on  in  silence  till  they  came  to  the  top  of 
the  hill.  Charley  instinctively  uncovered  his  head,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  setting  sun,  his  golden  curls  lit  up 
by  the  red  beams,  and  his  face  aglow  with  light  shining 
through  out  of  a  poet  soul  that  leaped  up  and  soared  be- 
yond the  sunset.  Wonderfully  buoyant  things  are  these 
souls  that  have  wings  !  Wilma  admired  the  sunset,  too; 
but  loved  better  to  watch  its  reflection  in  her  lover's  eyes. 
She  stood  looking  up  at  him  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as 
though  his  spirit  were  unveiled  before  her,  her  face  as 
rapt  as  his  own.  A  spectator  would  have  said  she  wor- 
shipped him. 

"Is  it  not  grand,  Wilma?"  He  drew  her  nearer  to 
him  with  the  arm  that  was  round  her  waist,  but  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  the  glowing  west.  "It  doesn't  seem 
as  if  we  are  very  far  off  from  heaven  standing  here — does 
it,  darling?  If  that  great  crimson  curtain  were  lifted  just 
a  little  way  we  would  be  on  a  level  with  the  golden  gates 
and  could  look  right  through." 

"Oh,  Charley!"  said  Wilma. 

"And  why  not?"  said  Charley,  smiling.  "Do  you 
see  how  motionless  everything  is  down  below?  There  is 
something  so  solemn  in  the  hush  of  the  wind  just  as  the 
sun  goes  down,  as  though  a  voice  whispered,  '  Peace,  be 
still  !'  And  look  yonder,  where  the  sun  breaks  through 
and  shines  upon  the  water,  was  ever  anything  more  tran- 
quilly beautiful  ?  How  I  love  water  !  I  wish  I  had  a  boat, 
— though  I  would  not  dip  an  oar  down  there  to-night  to 
break  the  charm  ;  it  would  be  sacrilege.  We  shall  have  a 
boat  some  day.  I  mean  to  live  near  some  beautiful  body 
of  water,  and  get  as  much  poetry  out  of  life  as  I  can.  I 
don't  see  how  people  can  be  content  to  pass  their  lives  in 
barren  places.  This  sunset  is  a  grand  poem,  Wilma  ; 
and  you  and  I  are  studying  it  together,  just  as  we  will 
study  all  beautiful  things  in  the  sweet  future.  I  shall 
never  forget  it,  darling." 

A  little  while  longer  they  stood  and  gazed,  while  the 
red  was  slowly  fading.  Then  the  spell  was  broken,  the 
soul  receded  backward  from  Charley's  eyes,  and  a  sigh 
fluttered  on  his  lip,  which  might  have  meant  that  he  felt 
himself  to  have  been  alone  on  the  greatest  of  those 


94 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


heights,  and  regretted  that  Wilma's  perception  of  the 
glories  of  the  Invisible  was  not  so  fine  or  so  keen  as  his 
own.  For  Wilma  had  scarcely  spoken  ;  she  had  felt,  but 
had  kept  silence ;  her  brown  eyes  widened,  and  were  full 
of  wonder  and  subdued,  sweet  joy.  The  moon  came  up 
with  a  stealthy  "  bo-peep"  behind  them,  so  that  when  they 
turned  it  was  looking  full  at  them  with  its  bland,  demure 
smile, — as  though  secretly  amused  that  it  had  stolen  a 
march  upon  them, — seeming  to  have  risen  out  of  the  thin, 
broad  sheet  of  water  that  lay  far  down  among  the  hills, 
like  a  rosy-faced  boy  coming  out  of  his  morning  bath. 
Charley  linked  Wilma's  arm  through  his  own,  and  they 
began  to  retrace  the  long,  downward  path. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

WILMA'S  family  was  an  odd  mixture  in  the  relation  of 
its  several  members  to  one  another. 

It  consisted  of  the  widow  Lynne,  its  one  head ;  Fred- 
eric, her  stepson  ;  Wilmingard,  her  daughter  by  a  former 
marriage  :  and  Blanche,  half-sister  to  the  two  last  named. 

There  was  also  a  Miss  Amelia  Barker,  who  boarded  in 
the  family,  and  had  had  her  home  in  it  ever  since 
Blanche,  whose  existence  measured  a  little  more  than 
seven  years,  could  remember ;  and  she  was  likely  to  con- 
tinue in  it  so  long  as  she  continued  in  her  character  of 
village  schoolmistress,  which  would  probably  be  until 
some  radical  change  took  place  in  educational  matters. 
For  the  good,  easy  citizens  of  Hazelville  were  averse  to 
change,  and  had  a  great  reverence  for  time-honored  in- 
stitutions. 

And  Miss  Barker's  reign  was  a  time-honored  institution. 
The  smaller  children  were  as  much  accustomed  to  her 
authority  as  to  that  of  their  natural  guardians. 

She  was  a  little  past  the  first  glow  and  freshness  of 
youth, — not  confessedly  so  on  her  own  part,  but  inferen- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


95 


tially  so  on  the  part  of  other  people, — but  still  held  on 
to  the  last  pretensions  to  bloom  and  beauty,  with  that  re- 
luctance to  give  them  up  which  wo  all  feel  more  or-less, 
according  as  we  outgrow  our  frivolities,  and  other  things 
take  the  place  of  bloom  and  beauty. 

Miss  Barker  was  a  power  in  the  Lynne  family ;  a  firm, 
strong,  decided  sort  of  person.  Which,  of  a  woman, 
may  sound  a  little  harsh. 

There  was  no  compromising  with  her ;  she  adhered 
strictly  to  accepted  facts  and  never  indulged  in  specula- 
tion. Astronomers  and  scientists  and  theologians  could 
not  impose  their  guess-work  upon  her. 
•  Mrs.  Lynne  was  held  to  be  in  easy  circumstances.  The 
statement,  of  course,  requires  modification  according  to 
locality.  The  reader  has  an  inkling  of  what  it  would 
signify  in  Hazelville.  The  chief  source  of  her  income 
was  a  small  farm  a  mile  or  two  out  of  the  village. 

Wilmingard,  always  spoken  of  as  Wilma  Lynne,  had 
inherited  a  small  fortune  and  an  old  Knickerbocker  name 
from  her  father,  neither  of  which  she  had  come  into 
actual  possession  of  as  yet. 

The  fortune  was  fixed  for  a  day  when  she  should  have 
arrived  at  a  discretionary  age.  The  day  was  now  not  far 
distant. 

As  to  the  name,  Wilma  had  many  times  had  vague 
dreams  about  going  to  New  York  and  hunting  up  her 
family  connections,  who,  as  her  mother  expressed  it,  were 
somewhat  "high-flown,"  and  had  always  looked  down 
upon  poor  little  Mrs.  Lynne,  especially  after  her  second 
marriage  (immediately  after  which  she  had  quitted  the 
metropolis  and  emigrated  to  the  West),  which  was  far 
beneath  the  Knickerbocker  pride. 

Wilmingard  stood  in  great  awe  of  that  side  of  her 
house ;  even  of  her  father's  picture,  a  stately  painting 
hanging  curtained  in  her  mother's  chamber. 

Her  first  marriage  was  the  romance  of  Mrs.  Lynne's 
life.  She  had  been  taken  from  a  little  country  town  to 
a  pretentious  city  home,  and  was  tenderly  loved  by  a 
noble  husband,  a  little  too  grave  and  too  great  for  her, 
it  may  be,  though  he  did  not  live  to  learn  it. 

The  romance  only  lasted  two  short  years,  and  then  she 


96  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

went  out  a  widow  from  among  her  husband's  coldly  pat- 
ronizing people,  back  to  the  little  country  town. 

Wilmingard,  pretty,  delicate,  and  brown-eyed,  upon 
whom  they  had  bestowed  their  pet  family  name,  they 
begged  to  be  permitted  to  adopt  and  bring  up ;  but  with- 
out success. 

When  Mrs.  Lynne  with  her  husband  and  their  two 
children  were  about  to  emigrate  Westward,  a  fine  carriage 
drove  up  one  day,  and  two  fine  ladies,  whose  soft,  dark 
hair  was  mixed  with  gray,  got  out  and  came  with  rustling 
silks  into  the  little  parlor  where  she  was  sitting,  and  re- 
newed their  supplications  for  the  child,  who  stood  by 
with  her  shy,  wondering  eyes. 

Meeting  again  with  a  distressed  but  firm  refusal,  they 
took  Wilma  in  their  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  told  her 
that  when  she  grew  up  she  must  come  and  see  them. 

One  of  them  gave  her  a  little  gold  locket,  and  the 
other  a  Bible  with  clasps  ;  then  they  touched  her  mother's 
hand  with  the  tips  of  their  slender,  gloved  fingers,  and 
went  away  sorrowfully,  as  from  a  funeral,  with  tears  on 
their  thin  white  cheeks,  which  they  dried  with  their  deli- 
cate cambric  handkerchiefs. 

Wilma  did  not  understand  the  scene,  but  it  left  a  deep 
impression  on  her  young  mind :  an  impression  which 
was  the  cue  to  all  her  after-speculations  about  her  father's 
family. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WILMA' s  lover  (whose  identity  I  do  not  doubt  the  reader 
already  suspects)  left  that  young  lady  at  her  mother's  gate 
upon  coming  down  from  seeing  the  sunset. 

A  gentleman  was  approaching  the  gate  from  within ; 
a  gentleman  who  was  professedly  courting  Miss  Barker, 
though  it  is  to  be  feared  without  serious  intentions.  He 
bowed  deeply  upon  meeting  Wilma,  to  which  she  returned 
an  inadequate  little  nod,  showing — without  her  intending 
it — the  exact  degree  of  respect  in  which  she  held  him, 
and  passed  on. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


97 


Outside  the  gate  the  gentleman  walked  briskly  to  over- 
take Wilma's  lover,  upon  which  he  slackened  his  pace, 
touched  his  hat  and  asked  with  a  smile,  which  was  all  a 
smile  could  be  in  the  way  of  trying  to  make  itself  agree- 
able and  insinuating : 

"  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr.  Burns,  I  believe?" 

Mr.  Burns  looked  up,  and  then  bowed,  coldly. 

"We  business  men,  you  see,"  said  the  gentleman,  in 
no  way  disconcerted,  "  have  a  better  chance  of  knowing 
strangers  than  they  have  of  knowing  us.  Though  I  take 
it  you  hardly  call  yourself  a  stranger.  He,  he  !  Think  the 
name  would  apply  better  to  myself,  doubtless.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir." 

"There  is  no  apology  necessary,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with 
dignity. 

"It  is  true,"  continued  the  gentleman,  "that  I  have 
not  lived  here  a  great  while ;  but  then,  while  I  have  been 
growing  into  the  place,  you,  sir,  have  been  growing  out 
of  it.  Sorry  I  didn't  have  an  opportunity  of  making 
your  acquaintance  sooner ;  been  East  on  business.  Un- 
derstand you  leave  us  again  in  a  day  or  two?" 

Mr.  Burns  bowed  again,  coldly. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  recollect  seeing  me  once  be- 
fore?" The  gentleman  put  the  question  as  he  might  a 
puzzle. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  had  the  honor,"  Mr.  Burns 
returned. 

"Well,  sir,  you  were  in  my  store  this  morning.  El- 
ston's  old  stand,  you  remember;  new  sign, — Dry  Goods 
and  Notions.  You  came  in  on  a  little  matter  of  trade, — 
cigars,  perhaps." 

"  I  don't  smoke,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  expressing  as  much 
disapproval  of  the  practice  as  could  be  crowded  into  so 
brief  a  sentence. 

"Ah  !  my  mistake.  Beg  pardon.  My  clerk  waited 
upon  you.  Well,  sir,  I  took  advantage  of  the  occasion 
of  your  coming  in  to  make  some  inquiries  about  you,  of 
gentlemen  who  were  sitting  around  ;  which,  permit  me 
to  say,  were  answered  in  a  manner  highly  creditable  to 
you." 

Mr.  Burns  showed  his  appreciation  of  this  compliment 
E  9 


98  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

by  kicking,  with  some  vehemence,  a  small  stone  off  the 
sidewalk. 

"  But,  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  had  forgotten  to  in- 
troduce myself  to  you.  He,  he  !  My  name  is  Smith. 
Popular  name,  isn't  it?  Not  much  danger  of  its  being 
soon  extinguished.  He!  he!  he!" 

It  was  a  stale  joke,  which  he  had  perpetrated  many 
times  before.  Nevertheless,  he  laughed  enjoyably,  his 
mirth  in  no  way  lessened  by  the  fact  that  he  laughed 
alone. 

"Town  changed  considerable  since  you  were  last 
here?"  he  inquired  complacently,  after  they  had  walked 
along  for  some  distance  in  silence. 

Mr.  Burns  replied  uncompromisingly  that  he  had  not 
observed  any  remarkable  changes,  at  least  in  the  way  of 
improvement. 

"  O,  come,  now ;  that's  too  bad  !  The  place  seems  a 
little  dull  just  now,  because  a  good  many  have  pulled  up 
stakes  and  gone  West.  Leaves  an  opening  for  a  few  wide- 
awake chaps  to  come  in  and  take  their  place.  Should 
think  you'd  quit  college  now  and  go  into  business.  Splen- 
did opportunity  with  your  stock  of  learning.  Might  start 
a  hardware  store  or  grocery.  It  doesn't  pay  to  spend  all 
a  fellow's  worth  getting  an  education,  especially  that  sort 
of  education  that  can't  be  turned  to  account  in  trade. 
What's  the  use  of  science  and  languages  to  fellows  like 
us  who  haven't  got  a  fortune  to  back  us?  There's  no 
money  in  them  !  I'll  tell  you  what,  there  is  one  kind  of 
schools  I  like, — these  commercial  colleges.  They  fit  a 
man  for  business.  Nothing  ornamental  about  them,  it's 
all  useful.  It's  true,  I'm  something  of  a  dabbler  in  lit- 
erature myself;  was  educated  that  way,  you  see.  Read  the 
poets  now  and  then,  and  scribble  a  little  occasionally. 
But  if  I  had  a  boy  to  bring  up  I'd  send  him  to  a  com- 
mercial college." 

Mr.  Burns's  dignity  suffered  tortures;  especially  as  it 
was  of  that  fine  quality  which  disdains  reply  to  stupidity 
or  impertinence.  He  took  advantage  of  the  first  con- 
venient street-crossing  to  step  aside  with  a  superior  air 
and  very  formal  "I  bid  you  good-evening,  Mr.  Smith." 

The  impressiveness  was  lost  on    the  pachydermatous 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


99 


Smith,  who,  thus  suddenly  pulled  up,  responded  cordially, 
though  in  a  tone  of  slight  surprise,  and  walked  on  solilo- 
quizing, "  Hum,  queer  chap  !  A  leetle  hard  to  get  ac- 
quainted with.  Young,  though  ;  hasn't  seen  much  of  the 
world  yet,  I  take  it." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MEANWHILE,  Wilma  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down 
with  the  family  in  the  best  room,  which  was  a  very  plain 
room,  with  a  faded  carpet,  cane-seated  chairs,  and  coarse 
white  curtains  at  the  windows.  The  only  thing  that  at- 
tempted ornamentation  was  Miss  Barker's  little  rosewood 
melodeon  with  its  carved  legs.  Before  it  sat  that  lady, 
not  performing,  but  looking  over  a  little  work  on  thorough 
bass  that  was  upon  the  rack.  Blanche  was  seated  near 
her  with  her  feet  drawn  up  on  her  chair-rung,  her  short 
dress  reaching  scantily  below  the  knees,  contracting  a 
pair  of  precocious  eyebrows  over  a  slate  and  an  arith- 
metic. 

Mrs.  Lynne  looked  up  from  her  knitting  when  Wilma 
entered,  and  asked  with  mild  reproof,  "Isn't  it  rather 
chilly  to  be  out  so  late,  Wilmingard?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Wilma,  a  little  shrinkingly,  the  question 
grazing  the  edge  of  her  ideal  world,  of  which  Mr.  Burns 
was  the  centre,  and  of  which  she  never  made  any  men- 
tion in  the  presence  of  her  family. 

They  knew  of  her  engagement,  but  of  all  the  tender 
hopes  and  plans  of  the  two  young  hearts  they  were  quite 
ignorant.  The  engagement,  which,  notwithstanding  their 
extreme  youth,  was  already  of  long  standing,  wore  a  very 
matter-of-fact  aspect  to  all  outsiders,  except,  perhaps,  Mr. 
Burns's  mother. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  if  your  fingers  and  toes  were  a 
freezing,  so  long  as  my  Lord  Lofty's  around,  would  you, 
Will?"  said  Fred,  who  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  his  chin  dropped  in  the  palms  of  his  hands,  looking 


I  oo  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

out  sleepily  from  under  a  great  shock  of  light,  frizzly 
hair. 

Mrs.  Lynne  glanced  up  reprovingly.  She  was  fearful 
— like  many  a  poor  woman  left  alone  to  bring  up  a  house- 
full  of  children — of  having  her  authority  trampled  on, 
and  so  continually  held  it  up  like  a  banner  before  the 
eyes  of  her  subjects.  Resulting  from  which,  it  is  not 
strange  that  it  was  sometimes  treated  with  a  disrespect 
like  that  paid  to  Gessler's  cap  by  the  indomitable  William 
Tell. 

Fred  was  silent  a  moment,  and  sat  winking  drowsily  at 
his  mother's  knitting-needles.  By  and  by,  he  looked 
across  at  Wilma  again,  his  tantalizing  spirit  unsubdued. 

"Why  didn't  'Squire  Burns  come  in  and  spend  the 
evening,  Will?  Couldn't  condescend,  eh?  There  ain't 
any  of  the  rest  of  us  high-toned  enough,  I  s'pose." 

Mrs.  Lynne  again  waved  her  banner  by  flashing  at. him 
another  grieved,  reproving  look,  which  he  affected  not  to 
notice.  Blanche,  with  a  world  of  indignation  in  her 
black  eyes,  shot  a  glance  at  her  brother  over  her  slate- 
rim. 

"You  think  you're  dreadful  smart,  Frederic  Lynne  !" 

"Why,  sis,  who'd  'a  thought  you'd  'a  spoke!"  said 
Fred,  turning  around  with  mock  surprise. 

Blanche  figured  away  in  sarcastic  silence.  She  had 
great  respect  for  Mr.  Burns,  whose  rather  proud  bearing 
and  dignified  reserve  accorded  with  her  young  ideas  of  a 
gentleman.  Frequent  skirmishes  on  his  behalf  were  car- 
ried on  between  herself  and  Fred,  all  pretty  much  upon 
the  same  plan  and  all  ending  in  Fred's  discomfiture. 

Wilma  never  took  any  part  in  such  combats.  She  was 
too  keenly  sensitive  where  Mr.  Burns  was  concerned  even 
to  defend  him,  though  the  blood  tingled  in  her  very 
finger-ends  to  hear  him  assailed. 

Blanche  presently  slid  down  from  her  chair,  put  by  her 
book  and  slate,  and  going  up  to  Miss  Barker  asked, 
coaxingly,  "Please  sing  something,  won't  you,  Miss 
Barker?  Sing  'Annie  Lawrie.'  ' 

Miss  Barker  complied  with  a  smile  (Blanche  was  a 
favorite  of  hers),  and  touched  the  keys.  A  tender  pre- 
lude glided  from  under  her  slim  fingers  and  prevailed 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  j  o  i 

over  the  silence.  Frederic's  head  had  dropped  upon  his 
folded  arms  on  the  table,  Mrs.  Lynne  plied  her  needles 
industriously,  and  Wilma  had  taken  up  a  book, — a  book 
of  poems  left  by  Mr.  Smith  for  Miss  Barker's  edification. 
Miss  Barker  sang  with  a  queer,  half-affected  pathos, 
which  Blanche,  much  admiring,  tried  her  best  to  imitate, 
and  the  chorus,  especially,  was  very  plaintively  rendered : 

"And  for  bonnie  Annie  Lawrie, 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  groaned  Fred,  raising  his  sleepy  eyes 
toward  the  singers. 

Blanche  flashed  round  upon  him  with  intense  disdain. 

"Frederic,  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Lynne,  with  much  sternness. 

"Oh,  nothing,  mother.  I  mean  that  I  don't  mean  no 
offence  to  Miss  Barker;  but  to  think  of  a  fellow  that  'ud 
lay  him  down  an'  die  for  a  girl !" 

"  Oh,  we  all  know  you  wouldn't  put  yourself  out  for 
anybody,"  sneered  Blanche. 

"Yes,  I  would,"  said  Fred.  "I  don't  mind  putting 
myself  out  a  leefle,  say  to  beau  a  girl  home  with  an  um- 
brella of  a  wet  evening,  or  trot  half  a  mile  to  fetch  her 
rubbers  when  she's  come  off  and  forgot  'em,  or  some 
such  reasonable  inconvenience ;  but  come  to  putting  my- 
self out  altogether,  blamed  if  there's  a  girl  in  Hazelville 
I'd  do  it  for." 

"Nor  anywhere  else,"  said  Blanche,  incisively. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Blanche,  and  you,  too,  Miss  Barker," 
said  Fred,  humbly  (though  Blanche  doubted  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  humility).  "  Don't  be  offend  d,  go  on  with 
your  interlude,  and  let's  have  the  rest." 

But  Miss  Barker  had  emphatically  ceased  to  play,  and 
arose  from  the  instrument  with  an  offended  dignity  which 
she  evidently  believed  would  express  itself  best  in  silence. 
And  a  very  ominous  silence  accordingly  followed.  It 
was  too  much  for  Fred ;  in  his  own  language  he  began  to 
feel  "mean,"  especially  when  he  inadvertently  encoun- 
tered his  mother's  sorrowful  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  solemn 
reproach,  as  much  as  to  say,  "See  what  you  have  done." 

He  made  a  strong  resolve  to  hold  his  peace,  and  with 
9* 


102  HIGH- WATER-MARK. 

that  dropped  his  head  upon  the  table  again.  His  atten- 
tion was  next  attracted  by  Mrs.  Lynne  saying  something 
to  Wilma  about  her  wardrobe,  having  reference  to  her 
going  off  to  school. 

"'Most  ready  to  go,  Will?"  looking  up,  his  bright 
eyes  twinkling  underneath  the  bushy  hair. 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  ready,"  said  Wilma,  "unless  I  hap- 
pen to  think  of  something  else." 

"I  suppose  you'll  keep  on,  when  you  get  started,  till 
you  know  as  much  as  my  learned  and  lofty  brother-in-law 
that  is  to  be?  Well,  that's  right, — go  ahead.  Here's 
poetry  for  it : 

"  A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing ; 
Drink  deep " 

"Oh,  poetry,  poetry !"  sneered  Blanche.  "You're 
always  quoting  poetry." 

"Blanche,  my  small  sister,  you  are  much  too  sarcastic 
for  your  years,"  said  Fred.  "You  are  developing  pre- 
maturely in  that  particular  direction." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  owes  that  to  you,  Fred,"  said  Wilma, 
who  was  secretly  more  in  sympathy  with  Fred  than  the 
others  supposed.  There  was  a  stratum  of  sense  and  good 
nature  in  him  which  she  liked,  though  she  realized  as 
much  as  any  of  them  that  he  must  not  be  upheld  in  his 
odd  ways.  She  never  laid  up  against  him  anything  he 
chose  to  say  of  Mr.  Burns,  knowing  that  it  all  came  out 
of  a  spirit  of  mischief  that  loved  to  tease  her.  Outside 
the  family  circle  Fred  himself  defended  the  young  colle- 
giate with  all  the  boyish  eloquence  and  confidence  he 
possessed,  which  was  not  a  little. 

Blanche,  always  industrious,  got  her  little  morocco- 
covered  Testament  and  began  studying  her  Sunday-school 
lesson.  After  a  time  she  looked  up  with  a  puzzled  ex- 
pression and  asked  (she  had  a  very  old  head  for  a  little 
girl),  "Ma,  where  did  the  Bible  come  from?" 

Mrs.  Lynne  glanced  up,  surprised  and  disconcerted. 

"Huh!  I  sh'd  think  everybody  'd  know  that,"  said 
Fred. 

"Do  you  know?  Perhaps  you  can  tell  us  then!" 
Blanche  retorted. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 03 

"Why,  it  was  handed  down,"  said  Fred,  lucidly. 

"  Dear,  how  smart  you  are  !  Handed  down  where 
from?" 

"Well,  that's  what  we  don't  know,"  Fred  returned, 
candidly.  "There's  some  things  we  don't  understand, 
and  it  ain't  likely  we  ever  will ;  but  we're  to  believe  'em 
all  the  same,  for  all  that.  That's  faith, — don't  you  see?" 

"No,  I  don't  see,"  said  Blanche.  "I  don't  under- 
stand what  faith  is." 

"Why,  it's  believing  what  folks  tell  you  whether  it's  so 
or  not,"  said  Fred. 

"Oh,  Fred  !"  exclaimed  Wilma. 

Miss  Barker,  horrified,  felt  that  it  was  time  for  her  to 
speak. 

"Faith,"  she  began,  addressing  Blanche,  to  the  utter 
exclusion  of  Frederic,  "  means  that  you  are  to  accept  and 
believe  just  what  the  Bible  says." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Blanche,  with  her  baby  brows 
precociously  contracted,  "  but  there  are  lots  of  things 
that  the  Bible  doesn't  say  !" 

"You  are  not  to  trouble  yourself  about  what  it  does 
not  say,"  returned  Miss  Barker,  severely,  stopping  inquiry 
with  authority  instead  of  satisfying  it  with  explanation, 
which  is  perhaps  not  the  most  effectual  way  to  lead  young 
minds  into  the  right  belief.  "It  says  enough  for  every- 
body's salvation  if  they  choose  to  accept  it." 

"  Or  for  everybody's  damnation  if  they  don't  choose 
to  accept  it!"  said  Fred,  with  a  sudden  inspiration, 
anxious  to  impress  Blanche  with  the  sufficiency  of  the 
Scriptures. 

Miss  Barker  raised  her  hands  and  turned  her  face  aside 
to  ward  off  the  blasphemy. 

"  If  we  could  clearly  understand  about  the  judgments 
spoken  of  in  the  Bible,"  interposed  Wilma,  "as  well  as 
the  rewards,  I  suppose  we  should  find  them  to  mean 
nothing  more  than  the  natural  consequences  of  sin,  or  of 
righteousness." 

"That's  a  fact !"  said  Fred.  "Though  I  suppose  we 
get  it  at  second-hand  from  you,  Wilma." 

Wilma  blushed,  as  she  always  did  when  betrayed  intc 
giving  any  of  Mr.  Burns's  opinions. 


104 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


"I  think,  Frederic,  we  have  heard  enough  from  you 
this  evening,"  said  Mrs.  Lynne,  with  unusual  severity. 
"You  may  go  to  bed." 

Fred  obeyed,  thinking  to  himself  as  he  went  up-stairs, 
"  I'm  sure  I've  heard  it  preached  in  the  pulpit  that  the 
most  of  us  are  to  be  damned,  and  I've  given  myself  up 
for  lost  every  time.  If  there's  only  room  for  a  few,  I  say 
let  the  ladies  go  ahead  as  they  do  at  Masonic  funerals.  I 
know  I  ain't  good,  and  I  ain't  so  very  particular  where 
they  put  me,  either.  I  expect  there'll  be  others  in  the 
same  boat,  and  I  can  stand  what  the  rest  can.  That's  a 
pretty  good  idea  of  Will's — or  young  Burns's — that  we've 
just  got  to  suffer  the  consequences.  Of  course  it  stands 
to  reason  that  the  punishment  won't  be  greater  than  the 
offence,  if  we  are  to  believe  in  the  Almighty's  justice.  If 
He  ain't  disposed  to  be  fair,  why,  we  can't  help  ourselves, 
as  I  see,  anyhow.  It's  my  belief,  though,  that  a  fellow 
can  pull  through,  some  way  or  other."  With  that  the 
philosophic  Fred,  relying  more  upon  his  own  stoicism 
and  ability  to  "stand  the  consequences"  than  upon  the 
Supreme  Father,  tossed  his  boots  into  a  corner  and 
turned  into  bed. 

The  other  members  of  the  family  were  variously  affected 
by  the  occurrences  of  the  evening.  All  except  Blanche, 
who,  forgetful  of  everything  weighty,  went  and  got  her 
big  china-faced  doll  and  arranged  it  in  its  white  night- 
gown, a  duty  she  never  neglected.  Miss  Barker  felt  per- 
sonally offended  with  Fred.  Wilma  believed  he  would 
come  out  all  right,  he  had  at  bottom  such  a  good,  honest, 
kind  heart.  Little  Mrs.  Lynne,  deeply  distressed,  lay 
awake  half  the  night  praying,  planning,  hoping,  despair- 
ing for  her  wayward  boy,  who  was  as  much  hers  to  guard 
and  care  for  and  love  as  either  of  the  other  children. 
Poor,  tender,  mother-hearts,  what  burdens  they  carry  ! 
Selfish,  and  yet  sublimely  unselfish  in  their  great  love. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE  following  evening  was  Mr.  Burns's  last  in  Hazel- 
ville,  as  he  was  about  to  return  to  his  university.  It  was 
too  precious  to  spend  anywhere  save  with  Wilmingard. 
Notwithstanding  he  lingered  in  his  mother's  little  sitting- 
room  and  seemed  reluctant  to  start,  for  the  sweet-faced 
old  lady  who  sat  by  the  fire  with  her  knitting  appeared 
to  watch  apprehensively  every  movement  he  made.  By 
and  by  he  got  up  and  took  his  hat. 

"Are  you  going  out,  Charley?"  she  asked. 

"Only  to  bid  Wilma  good-by,  mother;  shall  you  be 
lonely?" 

He  came  round  to  the  back  of  her  chair  and  bent  over 
and  touched  her  faded  cheek  with  his  lips. 

"  No,  I  am  used  to  it,  you  know,  my  son.  Put  on  your 
scarf  and  keep  your  throat  warm.  I  think  it  is  raining  a 
little.  The  umbrella  hangs  in  the  kitchen." 

She  got  up  and  took  the  lamp  to  get  it  herself.  Poor 
mother,  it  was  his  last  evening.  He  put  on  his  hat,  but- 
toned his  coat,  and  half-regretfully  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  out. 

"  I  won't  be  gone  long,  mother,"  he  called  back,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  cheerfully,  but  sighed 
the  moment  the  door  closed,  and  listened  as  her  son's 
quick  footsteps  went  ringing  down  the  stone  pavement, 
and  then  drew  up  the  stand  that  held  the  lamp  and  the 
family  Bible.  9he  took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  them 
on  her  white  handkerchief,  and  even  then  could  hardly 
see  for  the  blurring. 

Human  nature  is  so  rich  in  resources,  and  yet  how 
many  lives  run  in  a  single  narrow  channel.  It  seems  as 
if  there  ought  to  be  more  general  development  of  human 
faculties.  Would  it  not  be  well,  for  instance,  if  parents 
would  cultivate  something  beside  parental  affection?  Some 
resources  within  themselves,  some  interests  not  centred 
wholly  in  their  offspring.  Old  hearts  are  very  desolate 
E* 


Io6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

in  the  deserted  nest  after  the  young  birds  have  flown,  as 
fly  they  must  and  will. 

A  dismal  little  rain  was  spattering  the  pavement  as 
Mr.  Burns  wended  his  way  to  the  Widow  Lynne's.  He 
found  to  his  extreme  annoyance  that  Mr.  Smith,  of  the 
immortal  family,  had  preceded  him,  and  was  familiarly 
seated  with  the  family  in  the  best  room.  Miss  Barker  and 
he  were  engaged  in  a  discussion  upon  education,  in  which 
the  former  had  shown  herself  in  favor  of  it  upon  any 
terms,  compulsory  or  otherwise,  and  in  which  Mr.  Smith 
had  rather  gone  against  it,  giving  as  his  objection  to  the 
public  school  system  the  immense  taxation  to  keep  it  up. 
Moreover,  farmers'  sons,  he  declared,  and  farmers'  daugh- 
ters should  not  be  educated  above  the  plow  and  the  dairy. 
Else,  what  will  the  country  do  for  its  bread  and  butter, 
by  and  by,  when  our  boys  are  all  doctors,  and  lawyers, 
and  preachers,  and  our  girls  all  fine  ladies,  who  read 
novels  and  play  on  the  piano.  Miss  Barker  suggested 
immigration  as  a  means  of  recruiting  the  laboring  ranks  ; 
but  Mr.  Smith  was  opposed  to  immigration  also,  though 
it  was  evident  he  had  not  thought  of  a  way  of  stopping 
it. 

Mr.  Burns  upon  coming  in  had  seated  himself  apart 
from  the  debaters,  and  although  he  at  first  lent  a  polite 
ear  to  the  conversation  he  forbore  participating,  and  soon 
drifted  into  an  undertone  aside  with  Wilma.  "  I  wonder 
how  many  of  us  are  capable  of  education?"  said  he.  "So 
many  accumulate  knowledge  without  being  really  edu- 
cated. So  many  appear  to  think  they  have  no  mental 
faculty  but  memory.  For  my  part,  I  have  no  wish  to 
cram  my  head  with  a  mere  mass  of  facts,  dates,  events ; 
what  I  want  is  expansion  and  development.  I  want  to 
get  hold  of  the  best  there  is  in  me  and  bring  that  out.  I 
believe  there  is  enough  of  good  in  every  human  soul  to 
make  a  grand  character,  if  only  the  best  was  cultivated. 
Do  you  observe  the  mistake  these  people  (nodding  toward 
the  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room)  have  fallen  into, 
of  assuming  that  every  man  who  educates  himself  must 
necessarily  quit  his  farm  and  his  quiet  occupations  and 
get  into  public  notice?" 

Wilma  smiled.     "  After  all,  that  is  natural,  isn't  it?" 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


107 


"  I  suppose  so,  but  it  is  needless.  No  man  who  is  a 
thinker  and  a  worker  need  trouble  himself  about  his  ob- 
scurity. You  know  the  very  desert  is  traversed  by  men, 
and  a  grand  character  in  any  obscure  corner  of  the  world 
is  sure  to  be  sufficiently  known  and  admired.  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  want,  my  dear.  I  want  comprehensive  rather 
than  accumulative  faculties,  and  the  power  to  bring  my 
mental  and  moral  forces  to  bear  in  actual  living  and 
working.  I  don't  care  to  put  the  world's  past  in  my 
memory;  it  is  enough  to  have  it  in  my  library  for  refer- 
ence or  for  leisure  hours.  I  want  to  make  a  workhouse 
of  my  mind,  not  a  storehouse.  What  good  is  a  human 
cyclopaedia?  History  is  better — more  accurate  and  more 
lasting — in  a  book  than  in  a  man.  Flesh  and  blood  are 
too  costly  a  binding  for  statistical  records.  I  could  never 
be  a  historian  to  gather  up  and  preserve  the  implements, 
the  vehicles  that  men  have  used  in  carrying  forward  the 
world's  progress.  I  want  to  be  one  of  those  who  go 
forward  into  the  unknown." 

"What  if  everybody  were  like  you,  Charley?"  said 
Wilma,  looking  up,  archly. 

"True  !  we  should  soon  have  no  foothold  in  the  past, 
should  we?"  Charley  returned,  a  sudden  expansive  smile 
breaking  over  his  rather  grave  face.  "  Somebody  has  got 
to  keep  history  going,  I  suppose.  If  all  were  like  me  the 
world  would  soon  get  into  a  very  chaotic  state.  But, 
thank  Heaven  !  we  are  not  all  cut  after  the  same  pattern. 
I  want  to  pick  out  of  the  great  bundle  of  work  that  which 
suits  me.  I  claim  it  as  my  right  to  have  a  choice.  I  want 
knowledge,  I  want  education,  only  as  a  lamp  to  use  on 
my  way  through  life,  to  light  me  into  the  unseen.  Do 
you  understand  me,  Wilma?  I  want  all  the  helps  I  can 
get  toward  living  and  working.  And  this  I  call  education. 
When  my  faculties  are  trained  to  do  what  I  wish  to  ac- 
complish, I  shall  be  educated.  We  have  splendid  possi- 
bilities, my  dear ;  but  ah  !  the  waste  of  human  material — 
human  souls.  And  it  is  all  the  result  of  ignorance  ;  you 
have  no  idea  of  the  low,  animal  life  among  the  mankind 
of  our  large  cities.  Mankind  !  It  is  a  burlesque  upon 
manhood,  upon  womanhood.  It  makes  me  heart-sick  to 
look  upon  the  suffering,  degraded  women.  It  is  the  sad- 


1 08  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

dest  picture  the  world  can  show.  And  in  view  of  it  all, 
one  pair  of  hands  are  so  powerless.  I  thank  God,  my 
darling,  that  it  will  be  my  sweet  privilege  to  bless  one 
woman's  life,  to  keep  the  glad  song  of  love  in  her  heart, 
the  beautiful  light  of  happiness  in  her  eyes  always." 

Mr.  Burns,  reaching  this  climax  of  beautiful  devotion, 
paused  a  moment  in  contemplation.  He  had  the  most 
tender  and  chivalric  nature,  and  felt  himself  to  be  true 
and  unchangeable.  Wilma's  heart  thrilled  with  infinite 
love  and  trust. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  off  to  school,  Wilma," 
Charley  continued.  "  You  will  learn  so  much,  not  merely 
in  books,  but  in  many  ways  beside.  Of  course,  I  should 
love  you  all  the  same,  darling;  but  I  think  we  shall  be 
better  and  happier  and  more  useful  by  being  largely  and 
uniformly  developed  in  mind  and  heart." 

"  Oh,  Charley  !  I  could  never  know  as  much  as  you  if 
I  should  study  a  thousand  years,"  Wilma  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,  my  dear;  not  the  same  things, 
perhaps;  I  want  my  wife"  (and  here  the  young  collegian 
plumed  himself  a  little)  "  to  know  just  as  much,  or  more, 
than  I.  Only  a  little  different  knowledge,  more  delicate, 
more  refined,  just  as  a  woman's  mind  differs  from  a  man's, 
being  more  gentle  and  beautiful  " 

It  must  be  allowed  that  Mr.  Burns's  tone  and  bearing 
sometimes  justified  Fred's  criticism  of  him,  if  we  judge 
him  from  Fred's  standpoint.  A  few  college  years  had 
lifted  him  above  ignorance,  but  he  had  not  yet  acquired 
that  broad,  charitable  wisdom  that  makes  a  man  tolerant 
of — I  had  almost  said  of  all  things.  He  could  hardly 
help  looking  back  with  contempt  on  the  grovelling  lives 
he  had  left  behind  him.  The  little,  quiet  town  whose 
pulse  never  quickened  to  the  beat  of  the  world's  great 
drum  ;  he  had  shaken  its  dust  from  his  feet.  However, 
that  youthful  egotism  that  despises  the  lower  life  while 
aiming  after  the  higher,  is  not  a  bad  thing  viewed  by  the 
philosopher  stationed  a  little  farther  on  in  the  way  of  life ; 
by  and  by,  when  it  has  risen  clear  of  the  dust  itself,  it 
will  acquire  a  broader  vision  and  expand  with  a  softer 
charity. 

Charles  Burns  was  very  much  awake  upon  the  great  life 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


109 


problem,  and  felt  a  high  degree  of  personal  responsibility. 
Well,  the  enthusiasts  are  the  men  that  move  the  world. 
They  give  the  impetus. 

By  and  by,  Miss  Barker  and  Mr.  Smith  got  into  a  con- 
troversy about  the  poets,  and  the  latter  appealed  to  Mr. 
Burns.  "I  say,  Burns,  don't  you  think  Tom  Hood  was 
a  great  poet?  Miss  Barker,  here,  is  inclined  to  dispute 
his  laurels." 

Mr.  Burns  replied,  a  little  stiffly,  that  it  was  perhaps 
a  matter  of  taste,  education,  and  cultivation,  whether  he 
would  be  considered  "great."  Remarking,  that  there  is 
a  market  for  literature  the  same  as  for  other  produce,  and 
that  it  is  changeable  and  fluctuating  all  over  the  world. 
In  certain  localities  Hood  might  rank  above  Shakspeare  ; 
in  others,  fall  below  Widow  Bedott.  Just  as,  in  some 
places,  the  superior  article  of  food  is  rice ;  in  others,  corn  ; 
in  others,  potatoes. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Mr.  Smith  returned,  uncertain 
whether  the  young  collegian  sided  with  him  or  not :  in- 
deed, Mr.  Burns  had  purposely  left  that  point  obscure. 
"  Of  course,  everybody  has  his  own  opinion." 

"On  the  contrary,  very  few  have,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
taking  him  up  unceremoniously.  "We  usually  borrow 
other  people's  opinions,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  form 
our  own.  In  the  matter  of  books  and  authors,  the  critics 
decide  for  us.  Popish  rule  takes  the  Bible  out  of  the  hands 
of  ignorance,  fearing  misconstruction;  none  the  less,  we 
have  a  priesthood  to  interpret  all  our  books." 

Mr.  Smith  was  a  persistent  talker,  and  might  have  con- 
tinued the  discourse  indefinitely,  having  succeeded  in  get- 
ting Mr.  Burns  launched  ;  but  he  had  an  engagement  that 
could  not  well  be  put  off,  being  an  engagement  with  a 
debtor  who  was  coming  in  to  "  settle  up,"  and  so  he  was 
obliged  to  take  his  departure,  which  he  did  with  reluctance. 
He  approached  Mr.  Burns  to  bid  him  good-night  and 
good-by,  and  Mr.  Burns  got  up  and  bowed,  with  his  hands 
behind  him.  Shortly  afterward  he  himself  took  leave  of 
the  family,  and  Wilma  went  with  him  down  to  the  gate. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  have  kissed  him 
"good-by"  in  the  presence  of  them  all. 

It  could  hardly  be  called  a  sad  parting  with  so  much 
10 


1 1  o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

love  and  trust  on  both  sides,  though  there  were  tears  in 
Wilma's  eyes.  Charley  said,  tenderly,  his  strong  arm 
clasping  her  waist,  and  his  smooth  cheek  pressing  hers, 
"  It  will  not  be  for  long,  Wilma ;  be  brave  and  patient, 
and  trust  the  future  all  to  me,  my  little  one.  I  shall  think 
of  you  and  love  you  all  the  time,  darling.  Good-by, 
good-by !" 

He  turned  and  walked  away  rapidly,  and  Wilma  leaned 
over  the  low  gate  and  looked  and  listened  as  long  as  his 
footfalls  echoed  through  the  night's  stillness,  big  slow 
tears  dropping  silently  and  unheeded.  Then  she  went 
back  into  the  house  and  up-stairs  to  her  own  little  cham- 
ber and  closed  the  door,  feeling  that  there  was  a  sacred- 
ness  in  this  hour  in  which  she  had  parted  from  her  lover, 
perhaps  for  a  whole  year,  which  must  not  be  intruded  on. 
She  liked  being  alone,  though  she  was  fond  of  people. 
She  liked  to  speculate  about  them,  and  invest  them  with 
wonderful  histories.  The  self-consciousness  going  on  in 
every  soul  was  a  deep,  romantic  mystery  to  her. 

By  some  one  of  the  many  seemingly  singular  affinities 
in  this  world  (what  outwardly  conglomerate  assemblages 
there  would  be  if  there  were  no  obstructions  in  the  spir- 
itual currents  that  draw  people  together !),  Wilma  had 
contracted  a  strong  friendship  with  a  family  consisting  of 
three  elderly  maiden  sisters,  whom  Fred  impiously  called 
the  three  Black  Crows,  because  of  their  having  peculiar 
bird-shaped  faces  and  always  dressing  in  black.  These 
ladies  were  much  in  advance  of  the  village  in  point  of 
breeding  and  cultivation.  They  were  very  isolated  and 
not  very  well  liked,  being  considered  proud,  because,  poor 
ladies,  they  did  not  know  how  to  put  themselves  on  a 
level  with  coarse  minds.  Mrs.  Lynne,  though  not  coarse, 
had  no  key  with  which  to  unlock  their  different  nature, 
and  so  shared  in  the  general  dislike. 

Wilma  went  to  them  under  a  sort  of  protest  of  her 
mother  and  Miss  Barker,  and  the  whole  village,  in  fact. 
Indeed,  most  of  the  things  Wilma  liked  to  do — and  did 
do,  for,  though  she  had  little  combativeness  and  would 
have  been  better  pleased  to  drift  with  the  tide  than  to 
stem  it,  she  had  a  keen  intuition  of  right,  and  a  strong 
disposition  to  follow  it — she  did  under  protest.  Being 


HIGH-WATER-MARK:.  1X1 

naturally  amiable  and  obliging  she  would  have  been  easily 
led  and  controlled,  without  this  innate  principle  which 
made  it  a  difficult  thing  for  her  to  be  pushed  into  a  cor- 
ner and  kept  there  by  others'  prejudices. 

Wilma's  friends,  the  Shermans,  had  seen  better  days, 
as  their  surroundings  and  belongings  testified.  They  had 
books,  and  pictures,  and  fine  old  lace-curtains,  and  an- 
cient, stiff,  silk  dresses.  They  lived  in  a  rambling,  low- 
roofed  old -house,  unpainted  and  moss-covered,  shut  in 
by  trees  and  clambered  over  by  vines ;  a  curious  and 
romantic  place  from  which  almost  all  the  villagers,  envious 
of  Wilma's  freedom  of  it,  were  shut  out  by  their  own 
unkindly  regard  and  awe  of  its  inmates.  The  three  sis- 
ters, quaint  and  delicate  and  shrinking  from  contact  with 
their  neighbors,  sat  among  their  old  luxuries,  and  looked 
out  a  little  shiveringly  upon  the  cold,  unsympathetic 
world.  And  Wilma  was  the  only  bit  of  fresh  young  life 
that  penetrated  into  their  home  and  hearts.  And  it  was 
only  when  safe  in  the  midst  of  them,  with  their  kindly 
and  lively  sympathy  stirred  for  her,  and  their  sweet, 
home-like  atmosphere  surrounding  her  that  Wilma  freely 
expanded.  They  gave  her  a  freedom  that  nobody  else 
who  acted  upon  her  life — even  Charley — allowed  her. 

On  the  walls  in  the  Shermans'  parlor,  and  in  the  folios, 
were  some  fine  paintings  and  engravings.  What  interested 
Wilma  most  among  them  were  the  portraits  of  eminent 
men  and  women, — men  and  women  who  had  thought 
and  suffered,  and  whose  faces  were  books.  Charley  had 
often  said  to  her  in  their  rambles  through  the  woods 
and  over  the  hills,  "I  love  nature,  Wilma!"  And  once 
she  answered,  laughing,  "And  I  like  folks."  "Well," 
said  he,  "  we  shall  see  which  love  is  abiding,  nature's 
or  man's." 

Ordinarily  Wilma  was  not  brilliant  in  looks ;  there  was 
only  now  and  then  a  flaming  out  of  the  inspiration  within 
her  to  color  her  cheeks  and  illumine  her  eyes.  She  had 
a  soft,  brown,  fine-textured  skin,  and  an  abundance  of 
light  hair,  some  of  it  short,  and  curling  in  little  ringlets 
about  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  much  darker,  large  and 
brown,  and  sometimes  limpid  and  bright  as  the  shaded 
brook  in  the  heart  of  the  woods. 


112  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

The  morning  following  Mr.  Burns's  last  visit  was  very 
hard  to  be  got  through  with.  Miss  Barker  put  on  her 
bonnet  and  started  to  school  at  eight  o'clock,  so  as  to  be 
there  betimes  to  sweep  the  room,  and  dust,  and  set  the 
children's  copies  before  the  legalized  hour  for  beginning 
the  day's  work.  In  half  an  hour  Blanche  followed. 
Fred  hitched  up  in  the  one-horse  cart  and  drove  out  to 
"  the  farm,"  and  Mrs.  Lynne  and  Wilma  were  left  to  do 
up  the  morning  work.  Wilma  went  about  with  a  brain 
full  of  thoughts  and  a  heart  full  of  emotions  that  her  busy 
mother  had  no  conception  of,  being  occupied  with  her 
own  affairs. 

At  nine  the  stage  would  start  from  the  hotel  and  she 
could  see  it  from  her  chamber  window.  She  had  dwelt 
upon  that  anticipation  all  the  morning  with  such  a  concen- 
tration of  longing  for  one  more  glimpse  of  her  lover  that 
it  seemed  as  if  her  mother  must  read  it  in  her  face.  At 
last  she  was  at  liberty  and  flew  up-stairs,  her  heart  throb- 
bing as  though  some  great  crisis  was  at  hand.  Only  to 
see  Charley  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  She  put  aside 
the  curtain  and  looked  off  eagerly  in  the  direction  of  the 
hotel.  She  could  see  the  barn,  and  they  were  bringing 
out  the  horses.  Two  or  three  travellers  were  standing  on 
the  stoop  in  front  of  the  hotel  waiting.  But  no  Charley. 
Her  eyes  ran  swiftly  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of 
his  home,  shut  out  of  sight  by  the  hills  and  trees.  In  a 
moment  he  came  leisurely  around  the  corner,  carrying 
his  travelling-bag.  Wilma's  heart  bounded  and  the  blood 
rushed  up  into  her  face  at  sight  of  the  splendid  figure, 
broad-shouldered  and  athletic,  full  of  elasticity  and 
strength,  and  the  perfect  health  and  vigor  of  youth. 
She  longed  intensely  to  be  with  him  for  one  moment, 
just  one  moment,  to  feel  the  clasp  of  his  hand  and  say 
"good-by,"  again.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  passionate 
tears.  The  morning  had  been  long  enough,  why  had  he 
not  come  ?  She  remembered  that  she  had  not  asked  him 
to  come,  and,  for  all  his  tenderness,  he  was  so  proud.  It 
seemed  to  her,  as  he  went  up  into  the  porch  and  stood 
among  the  other  men  carelessly  talking,  that  he  was  leagues 
away  from  her.  There  was  nothing  in  his  manner  that 
had  any  reference  to  her. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  1 3 

Suddenly  her  heart  thrilled ;  he  walked  to  the  end  of 
the  long  porch,  apart  from  the  others,  and  looked  away 
to  the  top  of  Little  Twin.  Then  she  knew  he  was  think- 
ing of  her,  and  they  were  again  united. 

The  stage  rattled  up,  and  he  turned  and  walked  back 
and  threw  his  travelling-bag  into  it,  and  sprang  up  on  the 
seat  with  the  driver.  The  others  got  inside.  A  sudden 
thought  occurred  to  Wilma;  she  might  at  least  meet  his 
eyes  once  more;  there  was  a  turn  in  the  street  as  it  left 
the  village  only  a  few  rods  from  Mrs.  Lynne's.  There 
would  be  a  few  moments'  delay  at  the  post-office,  and  in 
the  mean  time  she  could  walk  up  that  street  and  go  and 
see  her  friends,  the  Shermans,  and  she  would  be  sure  to 
meet  the  stage.  She  felt  a  guilty  little  pang  at  the  de- 
ception she  was  practising  upon  herself, — about  the  Sher- 
mans,— to  cover  up  what  seemed  to  herself,  and  what  she 
knew  Miss  Barker  and  her  mother  would  denounce  as  a 
great  piece  of  immodesty. 

She  flew  down-stairs  and  got  her  hat  and  walked  rapidly 
up  the  quiet,  unpopulous  street,  under  the  thick  shade  of 
the  trees  that  bordered  the  narrow,  steep  sidewalk.  Just 
as  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  the  other  side,  the 
stage  came  banging  round  the  corner.  At  first  she 
thought,  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  that  he  would  not  see 
her.  He  was  looking  straight  before  him,  smiling  and 
talking  with  the  driver.  But  the  intense  magnetism  of 
her  eyes  attracted  him.  He  turned  his  head  suddenly, 
and  a  flush  of  glad  surprise  broke  over  his  face.  He  bent 
forward  and  kissed  his  hand  to  her  in  the  quick  moment 
of  passing.  It  was  but  an  instant,  rattlety-bang  went  the 
old  stage,  and  he  was  out  of  sight.  Wilma  stood  still  for 
a  moment,  too  deeply  moved  to  give  a  thought  to  the 
Shermans,  and  then  turned  and  went  slowly  back  home. 

For  many  miles  the  picture  of  her  walking  there  like  a 
brown,  wood  fairy  under  the  trees,  with  the  gorgeous 
autumn  leaves  above  her  and  under  her  feet,  filled  Mr. 
Burns's  thoughts  and  kept  his  heart  throbbing.  "  I  won- 
der if  she  was  not  there  on  purpose  to  see  me?"  he 
speculated  again  and  again,  feeling  more  and  more  tender 
toward-  her  as  he  tried  to  convince  himself  that  it  was  so. 

The  morning  had  seemed  interminably  long  to  him ; 


II4  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

he  had  got  up  early,  in  time  to  see  the  sun  rise,  and  his 
mother  had  set  out  a  dainty  breakfast,  and  he  had  eaten 
with  hearty  relish,  partly  to  please  her,  and  was  in  fine 
spirits.  But  when  he  had  got  himself  all  ready  for  his 
journey,  even  to  the  locking  of  his  valise  and  putting  the 
key  in  his  pocket,  and  looked  at  his  watch  to  find  that  he 
had  an  hour  yet  to  wait,  he  began  to  think  of  Wilma  and 
to  grumble  because  he  could  not  see  her  again.  Why 
could  he  not  see  her  again  ?  What  inexplicable  something 
was  it  that  stood  in  the  way  of  his  going  over  and  bidding 
her  "good-by"  again?  He  picked  up  his  hat  and  went 
out  for  a  short,  brisk  walk  up  the  hill  back  of  the  house. 
When  he  got  to  its  summit  he  looked  across  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mrs.  Lynne's.  "  Why  didn't  she  tell  me  to  come 
back  this  morning?"  he  ejaculated.  "  There's  plenty  of 
time.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  go  anyhow."  He  pondered 
the  thought  a  moment  with  knit  brows,  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  turned  on  his  heel.  "  No,  confound 
it !  I  will  not.  Probably  she  wouldn't  care  to  see  me 
again  so  soon  ;  it  would  take  all  the  sweetness  off  the  part- 
ing last  night.  I  would  be  a  fool  to  go  rushing  back ! 
Wilma  is  afraid  of  her  folks,"  he  supplemented  a  little 
contemptuously,  as  he  slowly  retraced  his  steps  down  the 
hill.  "I  have  an  idea  they  tease  her  about  me, — that 
Fred,  at  any  rate ;  and  she  is  such  a  sensitive  little  thing." 
With  that  he  came  back  to  thinking  more  tenderly  of  her, 
and  when  he  picked  up  his  travelling-bag  and  kissed  his 
mother  good-by,  he  said,  "  Be  good  to  my  little  Wil- 
mingard,  mother  dear."  Showing  that  between  himself 
and  her  there  was  no  reserve  on  this  delicate  subject. 

"  Vou  forget  that  I  seldom  see  her,  my  son,"  said  Mrs. 
Burns. 

"True,  I  don't  see  why  she  never  comes  here;  I  have 
begged  her  to  come  so  much."  Knitting  his  brows  and 
then  suddenly  expanding  them  again.  "But  she  will 
some  day.  God  speed  the  time  !" 

The  first  opportunity  he  had  after  leaving  Hazelville  he 
wrote  to  her,  and  said, — 

t(  Tell  me,  darling,  was  it  accident  that  brought  about 
that  flash  of  a  meeting  as  we  came  around  the  corner,  or 
did  you  (tell  me  truly)  care  enough  about  me  to  come 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  I  j  5 

on  purpose  to  see  me  ?  I  have  tortured  myself  with  the 
query  ever  since.  You  can't  think  what  a  pleasure  it  was 
to  me,  Wilma;  that  vivid  moment  photographed  a  pic- 
ture of  your  sweet  self  upon  my  mind  that  can  never  be 
erased." 

Wilma,  who  had  been  educated  in  a  practical,  matter- 
of-fact  school  that  rather  frowned  upon  the  silliness  of 
love-making,  answered  him  back  jestingly  and  coquet- 
tishly,  and  really  unlike  herself, — 

"  To  think  you  would  suspect  me  of  designing  to  get 
another  glimpse  of  you,  you  conceited  Charley  !  I  had 
started  to  go  over  to  the  Shermans." 

Mr.  Burns  replied, — "So  my  pretty  fancy  is  exploded. 
Better  suspense  sometimes,  I  find,  than  certainty.  It  was 
conceited  in  me,  wasn't  it?  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
the  bold  suspicion.  I'm  desperately  jealous  of  those 
Shermans.  To  think  I  should  flatter  myself  all  that  long 
journey  with  such  an  empty  delusion  !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AN  omnibus,  coming  from  one  of  the  Eastern  trains, 
backed  up  early  in  the  evening  against  the  stoop  of  the 
Crawford  House,  in  an  academic  town  of  that  name ;  and 
a  spruce  clerk,  with  white  cuffs  and  spotless  shirt-front, 
and  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  came  out  and  handed 
down,  one  after  another,  half  a  dozen  giggling,  laughing 
girls,  who,  as  soon  as  their  flounces  were  properly  shaken 
down,  went  tripping  off  up  the  street  as  if  quite  at  home 
with  the  place.  Last  came  a  little  gray  figure,  which  the 
clerk  carelessly  assisted  to  alight,  at  the  same  time  ex- 
changing jesting  remarks  with  the  beflounced  damsels, 
with  whom  he  appeared  to  be  on  easy  terms.  Not  until 
they  had  all  turned  their  backs  upon  him  and  ran,  laugh- 
ing, away  did  he  observe  that  the  small  figure  standing 
timidly  beside  him  on  the  steps  was  waiting  for  his  re- 
turning attention.  Then  he  looked  down  and  asked, 
quite  kindly,  if  she  wished  to  "stop."  Being  answered 


1 1 6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

affirmatively,  he  opened  the  parlor-door  and  ushered  her 
in.  Before  he  had  quite  shut  it  again  she,  Wilmingard 
(to  dispense  with  what  may  appear  like  a  mystery),  asked 
with  deference  if  she  might  send  a  letter  to  the  principal 
of  the  academy,  and  drew  it  from  her  pocket.  Miss" 
Barker  had  written  it  in  the  character  of  her  former 
teacher.  The  clerk  took  it  unceremoniously  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Wilmingard  took  off  her  hat,  and  seated  herself  at  one 
of  the  front  windows  and  looked  out.  Crawford  was  not 
a  large  town,  but  to  eyes  just  opening  upon  the  world  it 
seemed  very  imposing.  The  church-spires  were  much 
taller  than  the  church-spire  in  Hazelville.  The  business 
blocks  were  large  and  high  and  compact,  and  the  dwell- 
ings— what  few  came  within  range  of  the  window — were 
elegant  beyond  any  she  had  ever  seen  before.  Grander 
than  -all,  in  the  distant,  upper  end  of  town,  loomed  up 
the  bulky  brick  proportions  of  the  academy,  whose  shining 
pewter  dome  was  just  now  ablaze  with  the  reflection  of  the 
sun  far  down  in  the  west.  The  streets  of  the  little  city 
were  remarkably  broad  and  smooth,  and  an  occasional 
carriage  full  of  smiling  faces  and  gay  draperies  went 
rolling  along.  The  sidewalks  were  gravelled  and  bor- 
dered on  the  outside  with  rows  of  maple-trees  and  little 
square  patches  of  thick  green  sod  enclosed  by  a  low 
white  railing.  Everything  wore  a  sort  of  holiday  aspect. 
Young  girls  in  jaunty  hats  and  gay  jackets  sauntered  by 
in  groups,  talking  and  laughing.  Good-looking  young 
men  struck  their  boot-heels  sharply  upon  the  pavement, 
and  walked  briskly  as  if  life  meant  something  decided. 

It  was  all  new  and  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  Wilmin- 
gard, the  wide-awake  town  crowded  with  gay  and  happy- 
seeming  human  life.  It  was  always  the  humanity  part 
that  touched  her.  The  beautiful  town  itself,  its  fine 
buildings,  its  trees  and  tinted  autumn  leaves,  and  its 
boundary  of  low  hills  lighted  up  by  a  golden  sunset,  was 
but  the  gilt  and  rosewood  framing-in  of  the  exquisite 
picture  of  human  life.  Most  of  the  young  people  Wil- 
mingard made  sure  were  students,  and  devoured  their 
faces  eagerly  as  they  passed  along,  thinking  with  great 
trepidation  how  soon  she  would  be  among  them ;  but 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


117 


never  of  them, — oh,  no  !  She  looked  down  at  her  plain 
gray  dress  and  sober  little  hat,  and  smiled.  She  could 
never  be  so  jaunty.  Well,  she  did  not  care  to  be ;  she 
reassured  herself  by  going  back  into  her  own  little  world 
and  remembering  the  dear  ones  that  comprised  it.  Craw- 
ford meant  nothing  to  her  but  education.  She  did  not 
look  for  it  to  take  hold  upon  her  in  any  other  way.  She 
had  hardly  speculated  even  upon  what  her  teachers  and 
classmates  might  be  to  her  or  how  they  would  affect  her, 
except  that  she  had  dreaded  being  plunged  into  a  world 
of  strangers.  She  had  no  more  thought  of  enlarging  her 
life  socially,  and  letting  a  stream  of  new  people  into  it, 
than  Lake  Erie  has  of  opening  its  arms  and  embracing 
the  ocean,  if  one  may  make  so  grand  a  comparison  in 
reference  to  so  small  and  obscure  a  person.  She  was  sat- 
isfied with  her  own  little  sphere. 

Perhaps  there  is  little  danger  of  shipwreck  so  long  as 
the  heart  has  a  safe  anchor  grappling  it  to  something, — a 
mother,  or  a  brother,  or  a  sister,  or  only  a  memory  or  a 
steady  hope.  Without  it  a  human  soul  is  in  peril,  unless 
it  have  an  inner  strength  of  its  own  that  enables  it  to 
drop  anchor  in  any  sea  and  live  in  any  storm.  There 
are  brave  souls  rocked  in  mid-ocean  that  need  no  helps 
from  outside ;  the  God  in  them  is  stronger  than  all  that  is 
round  about  them. 

Watching  the  crowd  on  the  street,  Wilmingard  singled 
out  a  figure  walking  rapidly  down  the  opposite  sidewalk, 
— a  tall,  distinguished-looking  man,  dressed  in  black, 
magnificent  in  form  and  carriage  compared  with  all  the 
other  passers-by.  He  bent  his  head  downward  like 
people  do  who  have  a  good  deal  to  think  about,  and  knit 
his  black  brows.  He  had  more  than  ordinary  momentum 
(in  whatever  way  the  word  may  be  taken),  and  people 
made  way  for  him,  and  young  men  lifted  their  hats  as 
they  passed  him,  which  courtesy  he  briefly  acknowledged. 
He  crossed  the  street,  and  Wilmingard  lost  sight  of  him 
around  the  corner  of  the  hotel,  but  in  another  moment  the 
parlor-door  opened  and  he  stood  on  the  threshold. 

The  clerk,  having  hold  of  the  door-knob,  swung  him- 
self around  in  sight  and  announced,  "The  principal, 
Professor  Ingraham." 


I !  8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Wilmingard  got  up  with  palpitating  heart  and  stood 
trembling  before  so  august  a  personage.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  Miss  Barker's  prim,  laboriously-composed  letter 
of  introduction  had  brought  about  a  tremendous  con- 
sequence which  she  could  never  have  foreseen.  The 
piercing  eyes  under  the  knit  black  brows  transfixed  her, 
but  in  an  instant  a  smile — with  which  the  mouth  had 
little  to  do,  being  hid  by  a  black  beard — scattered  the 
sombre  expression  and  illuminated  the  fine,  dark  face. 

He  crossed  the  room  quickly  and  held  out  his  hand, 
retaining  Wilmingard's  in  a  strong,  magnetic  grasp,  while 
he  asked  a  few  rapid  questions.  Was  she  alone  ?  Had  she 
just  arrived?  Did  she  want  a  boarding-place?  She  felt 
completely  taken  out  of  her  little  world  and  introduced 
into  a  new,  strange,  but  not  disagreeable  atmosphere. 
The  principal,  despite  the  magnitude  of  his  presence,  had 
a  peculiar  personal  winsomeness.  A  sense  of  how  his 
students  who  were  near  to  him  by  long  association  must 
love  him,  pervaded  her  first  impressions  of  him.  He 
seemed  so  protective.  He  was  just  that  sort  of  strong, 
broad-shouldered,  great-hearted  man  to  be  loaded  with 
everybody's  burdens  and  to  bear  them  easily.  He  had  a 
wonderful  faculty  for  smoothing  other  people's  paths; 
Wilmingard  felt  that  intuitively  in  the  grasp  of  his  hand. 
"  My  sons,"  and  "  my  daughters,"  he  called  his  students, 
and  held  them  all  by  their  heart-strings,  which  is  about 
as  strong  a  hold  as  you  can  get  upon  human  nature. 

"  I  will  take  you  home  with  me  to-night,  Miss  Lynne," 
said  he;  "  we  have  no  boarding-house  proper,  as  I  suppose 
you  know ;  our  students  all  board  with  families  and  in 
private  boarding-houses.  The  preceptress  will  find  some 
good  place  for  you  to-morrow.  You  have  a  trunk?" 

"Yes;  it  is  outside  somewhere,"  said  Wilmingard. 

He  stepped  to  the  door  and  gave  some  directions 
about  it. 

"  Now,  come,"  said  he. 

Wilmingard  put  on  her  hat  and  they  stepped  out. 
After  they  had  crossed  the  street  and  got  upon  the  other 
side  where  the  crowd  was  thicker,  the  principal  looked 
down  and  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  walking  rapidly. 
He  talked  very  little,  seeming  preoccupied.  Two  or 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


119 


three  times  he  paused  to  speak  a  few  words  to  persons 
they  met,  relating  to  business  matters,  and  it  seemed  to 
Wilmingard  that  he  quite  forgot  her  as  he  strode  on 
again.  Half-way  up  the  main  street  he  stopped  and 
opened  the  gate  leading  up  to  a  pretty,  Gothic  house. 

"  Well,  here  we  are,"  said  he. 

"Is  this  your  home?"  Wilmingard  asked,  feeling  that 
it  was  an  unnecessary  question,  but  possessed  of  a  desire 
to  make  herself  as  agreeable  as  her  small  powers  would 
permit. 

"  This  is  my  home,"  said  the  principal,  concisely. 

A  little  shrub-bordered  path,  gravelled  like  the  side- 
walks, wound  around  to  a  side  door  facing  the  south,  and 
in  a  small  portico  partly  protected  by  a  mass  of  slightly 
frost-bitten  vines  sat  a  pale-faced,  severe-looking  lady, 
with  a  scarlet  shawl  around  her,  who  looked  up  without 
a  smile.  Her  presence  was  singularly  chilling. 

"Why,  Leah,"  said  the  principal,  "  is  it  not  too  cold 
for  you  to  be  sitting  here?" 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  both  cheery  and  solicitous,  or  in 
that  venturous  tone  that  is  doubtful  of  the  mood  of  the 
person  addressed  and  tries  to  be  conciliatory. 

"Where  have  you  stayed  so  long?"  she  returned, 
coldly. 

"I  went  down  to  the  hotel  to  fetch  this  little  girl, 
having  met  her  messenger  on  the  street.  There  !  I  have 
forgotten  your  medicine,"  striking  his  hand  on  his  breast- 
pocket. 

"Oh,  well,  no  matter,  seeing  you  had  more  important 
business  to  attend  to,"  she  replied,  in  the  most  cutting 
and  yet  the  quietest  tones. 

"I'll  send  James  for  it  as  soon  as  he  comes  in,"  said 
he,  ruefully;  and  then,  seeing  Wilmingard,  "This  is  Miss 
Lynne,  from  H County,  Mrs.  Ingraham." 

Mrs.  Ingraham  gave  the  merest  recognition,  and  then 
the  principal  took  her  on  into  the  house,  and  told  her  to 
be  seated  and  to  take  off  her  hat,  and  there  his  hospitable 
civilities  ended, — men  having,  as.  a  general  thing,  small 
knowledge  of  such  matters.  Then  he  stepped  to  the 
dining-room  door  and  told  a  girl,  who  was  setting  the 
table  for  tea,  to  call  Miss  Belmont ;  after  which  he  placed 


120  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

his  hat  on  the  table  and  seated  himself  in  a  large  arm- 
chair, leaned  back  and  passed  his  hand  once  or  twice 
across  his  forehead,  as  if  to  smooth  out  the  deep  lines 
upon  it,  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  which  was 
very  black  and  heavy,  and  slightly  streaked  with  gray. 

Wilmingard  felt  that  she  might  study  his  face  as  openly 
as  she  liked,  so  oblivious  he  made  himself  as  he  sat  wait- 
ing. He  seemed  to  her  much  older  and  more  care-worn 
than  at  first,  and  she  felt  a  sort  of  tender  pity  mingling 
with  her  spontaneous  affection  for  him. 

In  a  few  moments  a  quick,  light  step  came  down-stairs 
and  along  the  hall,  the  door  of  which  was  ajar.  Mr.  In- 
graham  got  up  quickly  and  went  forward,  the  sombre 
expression  of  his  face  breaking  away  and  an  eager,  relieved 
look  coming  into  his  eyes,  that  made  the  fair  face  of  the 
woman  who  entered  flush  a  pale  pink. 

"  Here  is  a  new  student,  Miss  Belmont ;  Miss  Lynne, 
from  H County.  Miss  Lynne,  this  is  your  precep- 
tress. ' ' 

He  turned  Wilma  over  to  her,  just  as  a  man  so  often 
turns  over  things  to  a  quiet,  clear-headed,  strong-hearted 
woman  on  whom  he  has  the  greatest  reliance,  and  went 
out  into  the  portico. 

Miss  Belmont  justified  his  reliance  upon  her;  Wilma 
unconsciously  felt  it  the  moment  the  blue  eyes  beamed 
upon  her  face  and  the  white  hand  closed  over  hers  in  a 
firm,  kindly  clasp.  She  had  been  on  the  borders  of 
home-sickness  the  moment  before,  and  felt,  just  now, 
that  it  was  not  of  half  so  much  consequence  to  get  an 
education  as  to  gain  a  friend,  in  this  new  world  upon 
which  she  was  suddenly  launched  without,  in  one  sense, 
the  least  preparation.  It  was  her  first  experience  in  lone- 
liness, though  she  had  spent  a  large  share  of  her  young 
life  alone ;  and  she  was  surprised  into  a  knowledge  of  the 
before  unthought-of  fact,  that  the  presence  of  strangers 
makes  one's  isolation  felt. 

Miss  Belmont  was  neither  very  young  nor  very  beauti- 
ful ;  but  there  was  something  about  her  more  charming 
than  youth  or  beauty.  It  had  speedily  lifted  the  cloud 
from  Mr.  Ingraham's  brow,  and  it  comforted  Wilma  in- 
expressibly. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  2 1 

Mr.  Ingraham  came  in,  in  a  moment,  with  his  icy  com- 
panion, and  they  all  went  out  to  tea.  The  latter  was 
certainly  not  open  to  genial  influences.  She  seated  her- 
self at  the  table  with  cold  stateliness,  and  made  such 
serious  business  of  table  etiquette  that  Wilma,  poor  child, 
who  had  a  voracious  appetite  after  her  journey,  felt  under 
too  great  constraint  to  eat,  and  left  the  table  almost  as 
hungry  as  she  had  sat  down  to  it. 

Nowhere  else  did  Mr.  Ingraham  labor  under  such  great 
disadvantage  as  in  his  own  home — in  the.  presence  of 
his  own  wife.  As  Wilma  subsequently  learned,  she  had 
brought  him  a  fortune,  and  he  had  somehow  lost  it ;  and 
she  had  no  hesitancy  in  saying  she  had  thrown  herself 
away  upon  him.  She  had  had  children  ;  their  four  smiling 
faces  looked  down  upon  her  from  her  bedroom  walls  but 
their  little  pattering  feet  and  prattling  tongues  were  silent. 
Altogether  her  life  had  gone  wrong,  and  she  was  "soured." 

One  is  sometimes  tempted  to  ask,  Is  the  leaven  of 
sweetness  in  us,  or  in  circumstances?  Could  we  be  any 
better  or  worse,  any  happier  or  more  miserable,  if  fate 
had  ordered  our  affairs  otherwise? 

Mrs.  Ingraham  was  said  to  be  bitterly  jealous  of  her 
husband  ;  jealous  even  of  his  fatherly  regard  for  the  young 
ladies  of  the  academy ;  and  some  shrewd  persons  hinted 
that  she  had  need  to  be.  Others  said,  Bah  !  he  had  a 
genial,  affectionate  disposition,  and  the  natural  outlets 
of  his  warm,  generous  heart  being  cut  off  by  the  death  of 
his  children  and  the  coldness  of  his  wife,  other  channels 
had  to  be  opened,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  he  had  charge 
of  young  people.  He  was  tender-hearted  and  exceedingly 
sympathetic ;  thought  it  no  compromise  of  his  manhood 
to  be  deeply  affected  at  a  play,  or  a  funeral,  or  anything 
sad,  or  tragic,  or  pathetic.  I  have  said  he  had  unusual 
momentum,  and  whichever  way  he  turned  he  was  sure  to 
go  with  a  certain  force,  putting  his  whole  soul  into  what 
he  did.  He  was  a  fine  dramatic  reader,  and  could  per- 
sonate a  great  variety  of  characters. 

The  day  following  Wilma's  advent  in  the  school,  she 
heard  him  read  Shylock,  and  thought  nothing  could  be 
more  hideous,  and  at  the  same  time  more,  fascinating, 
than  his  dark,  swarthy,  and  rather  handsome  face  con- 

F  II 


122  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

torted  into  a  representation  of  the  despised  Jew.  Passing 
directly  from  that,  he  repeated,  with  the  happiest  change 
of  expression  : 

"  When  breezes  are  soft,  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green ; 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  waves  they  drink,"  etc. 

At  home  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  among  his  books  ; 
piles  of  books,  on  the  tables,  on  the  floor,  on  chairs ; 
and  he  was  so  fond  of  a  listener — some  one  to  share  the 
things  which  he  liked — that  he  seized  on  whoever  came 
in  his  way.  He  made  endless  demands  on  Miss  Belmont. 
But  Miss  Belmont,  though  secretly  in  sympathy  with  his 
fine  literary  tastes  and  keen  intellect,  had  marked  out  a 
line  of  duty,  as  well  as  of  study,  for  herself,  and  it  did 
not  often  run  parallel  with  Mr.  Ingraham's  wishes. 

Mr.  Ingraham  was  not  troubled  by  conventionalities ; 
the  little  politeness  and  suavity  that  varnish  most  men's 
manners,  he  was  quite  free  from.  He  wasted  no  time  ;  he 
took  a  man  by  the  hand,  and  went  straight  at  what  he 
wished  to  say ;  his  mobile  face  expressing  whatever  feeling 
was  uppermost. 

After  tea,  they  alt  went  back  into  the  sitting-room, 
which  Miss  Belmont  made  cosy  for  the  evening  by  letting 
down  the  curtains,  drawing  out  a  small  table,  and  arrang- 
ing the  lamp  and  the  evening's  mail,  which  James,  the 
errand  boy,  had  just  brought  in,  upon  it,  and  opening  the 
grate  in  which  there  was  a  little  fire  to  melt  the  chill  of 
an  October  evening.  Mr.  Ingraham  went  across  the  hall 
into  his  study,  put  on  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
then  came  back  and  drew  up  his  arm-chair,  and  settled 
himself  in  it  preparatory  to  looking  over  the  papers.  But 
he  was  presently  visited  by  some  students,  whom  he  car- 
ried off  into  his  study,  because  student-visitors  annoyed 
Mrs.  Ingraham.  So  his  big  easy-chair,  that  had  an  air  of 
belonging  exclusively  to  himself  as  though  imbibing  some 
of  his  personality,  stood  empty,  and  made  a  vacancy 
keenly  felt  in  the  small  circle,  at  least  by  Wilmingard. 

Mrs.  Ingraham  sat  gloomily  by  the  fire,  with  her  shawl 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


123 


around  her  in  which  she  appeared  always  to  wrap  herself 
up  along  with  her  troubles.  Miss  Belmont  tried  to  in- 
terest her  in  a  magazine  article,  but  met  with  so  little 
encouragement  that  she  laid  the  book  aside  and  took  up 
some  needle-work,  and  turned  her  attention  to  Wilmin- 
gard,  whose  open  heart  and  mind  were  taking  in  a  world 
of  new  impressions  almost  unconsciously.  Our  conscious- 
ness is  the  last  thing  to  waken  ;  years  after  a  certain  set 
of  images  pass  before  us,  we  wake  up  to  the  meaning  of 
them.  Just  as  when  we  are  children,  we  read  a  grand 
poem  for  its  musical  rhythm,  and  see  nothing  else  in  it 
until  we  are  gray-haired,  maybe. 

Wilmingard  took  in  a  few  disconnected  ideas  respect- 
ing the  various  members  of  this  singular  family, — Mrs. 
Ingraham's  utter  disagreeableness,  Miss  Belmont's  won- 
derful gentleness,  tinged  with  a  faint  sadness,  and  even 
the  principal's  well-governed  impatience  at  the  unreason- 
able constraint  put  upon  him.  But  the  workings  of  the 
combined  domestic  machinery  were  a  mystery  to  her  that 
remained  obscure  for  years. 

Miss  Belmont  was  Mrs.  Ingraham's  step-sister,  and 
owed  her  education  to  her  and  lived  under  the  weight 
of  the  obligation.  She  was  housekeeper  in  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham's domestic  establishment  as  well  as  preceptress  in 
his  academy. 

At  last  Mrs.  Ingraham  got  up  and  left  the  room,  barely 
having  the  grace  to  say  "good-night"  as  she  closed  the 
door  Miss  Belmont  sighed,  and  presently  put  aside  her 
work. 

"  We  will  go  up-stairs  now,  my  dear.  I  presume  you 
are  tired  and  sleepy,  and  would  like  to  go  to  bed,"  she 
said  to  Wilmingard,  who  did  not  object. 

As  they  were  about  leaving  the  room  Mr.  Ingraham 
came  back,  having  dismissed  his  visitors,  and  looked  sur- 
prised to  find  the  little  circle  broken  up  so  soon.  He 
asked  if  Mrs.  Ingraham  had  retired,  and  then  added, 
"And  you  two  are  going  to  desert  me,  also?"  Knitting 
his  brows  and  frowning  and  smiling  at  once, — his  face 
being  capable  of  an  endless  variety  and  combination  of 
expressions, — "  Come  back  and  sit  down  !" 

The  preceptress  shook  her  head  in  some  slight  embar- 


124 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK, 


rassment ;  she  had  that  sort  of  delicate,  transparent  com- 
plexion that  is  quick  to  flush  and  pale. 

"Our  little  friend  is  tired  and  must  goto  bed,"  she 
explained,  glancing  at  Wilmingard. 

"But  you  are  not,"  said  he.  "You  will  sit  up  half 
the  night  poring  over  those  dry  books;  bring  them  down 
here  by  the  fire." 

He  spoke  with  a  mixture  of  imperativeness  and  per- 
suasion ;  but  the  preceptress  was  resolute,  and  leading 
Wilma  out  into  the  hall,  said,  "  Good-night,"  and  closed 
the  door,  leaving  him  standing  alone  on  the  mat  in  front 
of  the  stove,  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  a  roof  of 
black  hair,  which  he  had  been  running  his  fingers  through, 
projecting  over  his  forehead,  adding  to  his  look  of  grim 
disappointment.  He  had  a  tyrannical  will,  and  hated  to 
be  frustrated  even  in  little  things.  His  remarkable  gov- 
ernment in  school,  that  had  won  his  academy  an  enviable 
reputation,  lay  chiefly  in  his  strong  personal  magnetism. 
He  did  not  instil  principles  so  much  as  he  infused  him- 
self. His  students  did  not  obey  purely  because  it  was 
right  to  obey,  but  because  it  was  he  that  commanded. 
He  exercised  little  visible  control  over  Miss  Belmont,  and 
yet  there  were  times  when  he  seemed  to  read  in  her 
flushed  face  that  his  magnetic  power  was  felt  even  by  her, 
and  the  suspicion  pleased  him,  though  he  felt  chagrined 
that  she  set  up  her  quiet,  resolute  will  in  opposition  to 
him. 

He  remained  standing  a  moment,  and  then  betook 
himself  to  what  were  available  :  namely,  his  arm-chair, 
the  papers,  and  a  foot-rest,  and  forthwith  forgot  that  he 
was  alone  or  lonely. 

Miss  Belmont  took  Wilmingard  up  into  a  little  white 
room  opening  out  of  her  own,  and  touched  her  lips  with 
a  good-night  kiss  and  went  out,  leaving  the  door  ajar, 
and  set  her  lamp  down  on  a  table  piled  high  with  pon- 
derous books.  Not  a  paper  or  magazine;  no  gilt-edged 
leaves  or  ornamental  bindings;  all  grave-looking  volumes 
bound  in  calf.  Seating  herself,  and  opening  one  of  them, 
she  began  to  study  earnestly,  absorbingly,  as  only  those 
can  who  have  learned  the  art  of  close  application. 

Wilmingard,  watching  her  through  the  open  door,  felt 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


125 


that  her  own  and  Miss  Belmont's  consciousness,  mingling 
a  moment  before,  and  creating  a  little  world  in  common 
around  them,  were  divided  now,  and  each  was  alone. 
She  began  to  realize  all  the  new  sensations  of  being  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  among  strangers,  surrounded  by 
strange  white  walls  and  unfamiliar  objects.  Not  unpleas- 
ant sensations ;  the  two  rooms,  Miss  Belmont's  and  her 
own,  had  an  exquisite  air  of  purity  from  being  absolutely 
clean.  An  air  that  extended  to  Miss  Belmont  herself, 
who  was  daintily  neat  in  person. 

Wilmingard  had  a  good  opportunity  now  to  study  her 
face  as  she  had  studied  Mr.  Ingraham's.  She  had  a 
broad,  low,  projecting  forehead,  and  her  light,  silken 
hair  was  parted  and  combed  carefully  above  it  and  coiled 
behind.  Her  skin  was  without  speck  or  blemish,  and 
delicately  fair.  Her  face  was  too  short  and  broad  for 
beauty,  though  it  was  fine  in  intelligence  and  expression. 
She  had  small,  firm  hands,  short-fingered,  not  soft,  but 
white  and  smooth.  Mr.  Ingraham  called  her  "  The  Little 
Woman,"  and  it  seemed  to  imply  that  she  had  wrapped 
up  in  her  small  person  a  great  deal  of  the  dignified,  ad- 
mirable quality  which  we  call  womanliness.  A  firm, 
energetic,  determined  character  was  hers,  softened  by 
the  gentlest — almost  timid — manners. 

Wilmingard  lay  watching  her  sleepily  until  her  eyes 
involuntarily  closed.  Long  afterward  Miss  Belmont  sat 
studying,  and  all  the  while  the  red  coals  glowed  in  the 
sitting-room  stove,  and  Mrs.  Ingraham's  cushioned  chair 
stood  empty  and  open-armed.  (Of  all  people  in  the 
world,  Mrs.  Ingraham  was  not  jealous  of  Miss  Belmont.) 
And  Mr.  Ingraham  would  have  been  glad  of  just  her 
silent  presence.  Not  that  he  preferred  Miss  Belmont's 
presence  to  that  of  any  other  intelligent,  companionable 
person,  whose  silent  thoughts  (even)  were  in  harmony 
with  his  own.  He  hated  the  solitary  evenings  and 
wanted  somebody  to  talk  to  occasionally,  and  to  read  to, 
to  take  an  interest  in  what  interested  him.  It  chafed 
him  to  be  left  alone.  Even  if  he  were  busy  studying  or 
writing,  so  that  he  never  looked  up,  or  spoke,  or  showed 
by  any  sign  that  he  was  conscious  of  another  presence, 
he  yet  liked  to  feel  that  some  other  was  there.  Mrs. 

u* 


1 26  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Ingraham  was  never  available,  preferring  the  solitude  of 
her  own  room  and  the  companionship  of  the  four  smiling 
baby  faces  on  the  walls.  So  he  looked  to  Miss  Belmont ; 
but  Miss  Belmont  would  not  amuse  him. 

Under  different  circumstances  (if  Mr.  Ingraham  had 
been  an  unmarried  man),  it  might  have  been  attributed 
to  womanly  pique ;  for  he  seldom  took  any  notice  of  the 
preceptress  in  society,  or  even  in  the  academy,  where 
among  all  the  teachers  and  professors  she  was  the  staunch- 
est  pillar,  being  the  profoundest  scholar,  the  deepest 
thinker,  and  most  indefatigable  worker  of  them  all.  She 
was  a  philosopher,  a  constant  seeker  after  the  abstract 
and  hidden,  and  delighted  in  tracing  the  analogy  of  all 
things  to  all  things,  and  in  bringing  all  investigation  to 
bear  on  the  great  problem  of  human  life  and  destiny. 
Though  living,  in  her  inner  consciousness,  the  most  soli- 
tary, isolated  life,  she  had  the  warmest,  tenderest,  most 
charitable  love  for  mankind.  She  had  the  finest  moral 
and  spiritual  perceptions  and  aesthetic  tastes.  If  people 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  know  her  they  would  have  called 
her  fastidious,  and  stood  in  fear  of  her  verdict.  As  it 
was,  nobody  was  offended  by  her  critical  judgment.  The 
merest  chit  of  a  pianist  would  dash  off  a  piece  of  music 
in  the  most  soulless  manner  and  expect  her  to  admire  it, 
or,  at  most,  not  care  whether  she  admired  it  or  not. 

How  we  shallow,  conceited  creatures  would  writhe 
under  the  lash  of  these  silent,  terrible  judges,  did  they 
but  apply  it !  Our  safety  lies  in  their  nobility,  that  will 
not  stoop  to  criticise  us  by  so  much  as  a  sneer. 

Miss  Belmont  did  not  assert  her  own  individual,  grand 
nature.  She  was  simply  the  preceptress.  She  wore  that 
garb,  and  it  concealed  her  as  effectually  as  the  black  dress 
conceals  the  personality  of  the  nun.  She  surveyed  men 
and  things  from  a  far-above,  disinterested  standpoint,  her 
mind  spreading  out  like  a  clear  intellectual  and  moral 
sky  above  the  petty  contentions,  egotism,  and  prejudices 
of  men.  It  is  not  strange  she  was  not  appreciated ;  our 
appreciation  of  a  thing  is  commensurate  only  with  our 
understanding  of  it. 

When  Wilmingard  came  to  know  her  better  and  to 
study  her  face,  she  seemed  to  reveal  much  of  her  grand 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 2  7 

nature  through  her  eyes ;  such  poor  eyes,  too,  they  were, 
in  form  and  color,  but  wonderful  in  light  and  expression. 
She  was  not  popular  in  the  academy,  she  did  not  shed 
around  her  the  sunshine  that  was  radiated  from  Mr. 
Ingraham.  Hers  was  one  of  those  deep,  subtle  natures 
that  only  a  few  people  find  out  and  worship  as  they  wor- 
ship truth  and  honor  and  heroism.  The  influence  of 
such  persons  is  certainly  more  far-reaching  and  wide- 
spreading  in  the  end  than  the  magnetism  that  attracts  to 
itself  simply. 

Wilmingard  awoke  with  a  start  the  following  morning 
to  find  herself  surrounded  with  so  much  strangeness. 
The  shutters  were  open,  but  a  jasmine  clambering  up  out- 
side the  window  covered  it  with  a  thick,  green  shade. 
Nevertheless,  she  saw  that  it  was  daylight  and  heard  the 
preceptress  moving  about  in  the  next  room.  She  got  up, 
her  whole  being  quickened  with  that  sense  of  expectancy 
one  feels  when  stepping  within  the  borders  of  a  new  life, 
and  washed  and  dressed  herself  and  then  pushed  open 
the  door  and  went  out.  Miss  Belmont  stood  at  the  win- 
dow and  beckoned  to  her.  Wilmingard  went  up  to  her, 
and  she  put  her  arm  around  her  and  said,  "Good-morn- 
ing," without  turning  her  head.  The  window  was  open 
from  the  top  half-way  down.  The  sun  was  peeping  up 
over  a  long^  line  of  many-hued  hills  stretching  away  to 
the  east.  Wilmingard  was  forcibly  impressed  by  the 
spirit  of  beauty  breathed  through  the  scene,  and  stood 
silent. 

"  I  always  thank  God  for  a  morning  like  this,"  said 
Miss  Belmont.  "I  mean  spontaneously, — as  the  birds 
sing  for  joy  and  gladness." 

Wilma  glanced  up  into  her  face ;  it  had  a  little  differ- 
ent expression  from  the  night  before, — less  sad,  more 
hopeful.  She  seemed  lifted  above  the  clogging  circum- 
stances around  her.  In  solitude  Miss  Belmont  gathered 
up  her  forces  daily,  and  braced  herself  for  her  daily  work. 

"Should  you  like  to  take  a  short  walk  before  break- 
fast?" she  asked.  "I  am  going  out  to  mail  some 
letters." 

Wilmingard  assented,  and  got  her  hat  and  shawl  and 
they  went  down-stairs.  No  one  was  astir  below  except 


128  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

a  servant  or  two,  in  the  far  back  regions  of  kitchen  and 
stable.  Miss  Belmont  turned  the  key  in  the  hall-door  and 
they  stepped  out.  The  grass  and  the  trees  and  shrubbery 
and  fences  were  all  whitened  by  a  thick  frost,  on  which 
the  early  and  not  very  powerful  sunbeams  glistened.  The 
streets  were  silent,  the  village  looked  like  a  picture  of  still- 
life.  In  a  few  moments  doors  began  to  open  and  gate- 
latches  began  to  click. 

"Do  you  like  getting  up  so  early  in  the  morning?" 
Miss  Belmont  asked. 

"I  have  always  been  used  to  getting  up  early,"  Wil- 
mingard  said  ;  but  as  to  the  question  of  liking  it,  her  mind 
ran  back  to  numberless  occasions  when  her  mother's  voice 
(alas,  it  gave  her  a  pang  to  remember  it)  had  aroused  her 
from  sweet,  reluctant  dreams. 

Miss  Belmont  smiled. 

"  It  is  natural  for  the  young  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "  But 
it  seems  to  me  the  morning  is  our  best  time  ;  our  thoughts 
are  freer,  our  intellect  clearer,  and  life  a  little  fresher. 
The  night  and  sleep  throw  over  us  a  gentle  influence  like 
this  delicate  frost-work  on  the  trees,  and  when  the  morn- 
ing and  consciousness  break  upon  us  we  come  out  like  the 
day,  with  a  certain  vigor  and  newness." 

They  went  down  street  several  blocks  and  entered  the 
outer  room  of  the  post-office,  which  stood. on  a  street 
corner.  Miss  Belmont  dropped  her  letters  in  the  box, 
and  they  turned  to  go  out  again. 

"  Oh,  maybe  there  is  a  letter  for  me  !"  said  Wilmin- 
gard,  with  a  sudden  hope. 

Miss  Belmont  turned  back  and  tapped  a  little  silver  bell 
that  stood  on  the  counter.  Immediately  the  postmistress, 
a  woman  with  a  broad,  square  chin,  and  mouth  firmly 
locked,  as  though  nothing  were  ever  to  be  got  out  of  her, 
came  in  through  a  back  door  and  awaited  orders. 

"  Any  letters  for  Miss  Lynne?"  the  preceptress  inquired. 

The  woman  turned  automatically,  and  took  down  a 
handful  of  letters  from  the  box  marked  L,  and  shifted 
them  rapidly  through  her  hands.  She  was  near-sighted, 
and  held  them  close  to  her  face.  The  last  one,  in  a  large 
white  envelope,  with  a  bold  superscription  upon  it,  Wilma 
instantly  recognized  as  Charley's.  The  woman  glanced 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  129 

at  it  a  second  time  and  threw  it  upon  the  counter.  Wilma 
caught  it  up  with  a  glad  heart-bound  that  sent  the  dark 
red  blood  into  her  dusky  cheeks,  and  put  it  in  her  pocket. 
It  seemed  almost  as  if  Charley  himself  were  beside  her, 
banishing  all  the  newness  and  strangeness,  and  throwing 
around  her  his  own  dear,  familiar  presence.  He  put  so 
much  of  himself  into  his  letters, — into  the  very  chirogra- 
phy  of  his  letters. 

Mr.  Ingraham  was  out  on  the  steps  when  they  got  back, 
in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  his  hair  uncombed  and 
projecting  over  his  forehead,  as  was  often  the  case. 

"So,  Miss  Belmont  got  you  out  early,  did  she,  Miss 
Lynne?"  said  he,  looking  quizzically  at  Miss  Belmont 
rather  than  at  Wilmingard. 

"  Miss  Lynne  got  herself  out,"  returned  the  preceptress, 
the  pink  flush  suffusing  her  white  face  again. 

Mr.  Ingraham  smiled,  looking  at  her  narrowly  as  if 
piercing  the  delicate  reserve  with  which  she  hedged  her- 
self around.  It  was  as  though  he  said,  Come,  now,  I 
know  you  are  glad  to  see  me,  I  know  you  rather  like  me ; 
why  not  give  up  and  let  it  appear  so?  But  the  letting  it 
appear  so  was  where  Miss  Belmont  took  a  stand  and  set 
up  a  principle.  So  long  as  she  could  preserve  the  thin 
partition  of  unacknowledgment  between  them,  she  could 
preserve  her  own  dignity  and  command  his  respect.  Per- 
haps one  strong  prop  to  her  firm  principle  was  this,  that 
if  she  lost  his  respect  she  would  have  nothing  left. 

She  passed  him  on  the  steps  and  went  in. 

"  Come  into  my  study,"  said  he,  following  them  into 
the  hall  and  opening  a  door  opposite  the  sitting-room 
door.  "It  is  not  breakfast  time  yet,"  taking  a  massive 
gold  watch  from  his  vest  pocket.  "  I  want  to  read  you 
a  little  scrap  from  Dr.  Holmes.  Come  !" 

"  Please  bring  it  into  the  breakfast-room,"  said  Miss 
Belmont.  "  I  have  a  little  work  to  do  there." 

Mr.  Ingraham  frowned  portentously,  and  obeyed. 

Mrs.  Ingraham  did  not  appear  at  breakfast,  which  Wil- 
mingard felt  to  be  an  immense  relief.  It  seemed  to  her 
things  would  go  on  much  better  without  that  severe  lady. 
The  house  was  remarkably  pleasant ;  it  had  luxurious  fur- 
niture, deep  bay-windows,  pictures,  shells,  stones,  busts, 
F* 


130  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

and  no  end  of  books.  Mr.  Ingraham's  library  and  study 
were  both  in  one,  but  his  books  were  by  no  means  con- 
fined to  it ;  they  had  the  freedom  of  the  house  and  were 
scattered  about  everywhere. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Mr.  Ingraham  went  into 
his  study.  By  and  by  the  boy  "James"  drove  around 
in  a  one-horse  topped  buggy,  and  he  came  out  dressed, 
carrying  an  armful  of  books,  and  got  into  it  and  drove 
away.  A  little  later,  Wilmingard,  having  gone  up-stairs 
and  read  her  letter  by  the  jasmined  window  in  her  little 
white  room,  put  on  her  hat  and  started  to  walk  to  the 
academy  with  the  preceptress, — the  distance  being  nearly 
half  a  mile. 

The  academy  enclosure  was  a  large  park  set  with  trees 
and  covered  with  thick,  green  grass,  broken  by  several 
gravel  walks  leading  from  the  building  to  the  different 
gates.  Miss  Belmont  opened  a  gate  at  a  corner  of  the 
park  and  went  up  to  the  front  entrance,  Wilmingard  be- 
side her  all  a-tremble  with  excitement  and  anticipation. 
A  group  of  girls  stood  in  the  long  hall  on  the  second 
floor,  talking  and  laughing  boisterously.  They  drew  aside 
and  bowed  respectfully,  looking  a  little  confused,  as  Miss 
Belmont  passed.  Immediately  a  side-door  opened  and 
Mr.  Ingraham  came  out  with  his  portentous  frown,  that 
did  not  altogether  conceal  a  certain  good-humored  gleam 
in  his  eyes.  All  the  girls  exclaimed  in  a  breath,  "  Oh, 
there's  Prof.,"  and  surrounded  him  and  got  possession  of 
his  hands  and  began  proffering  some  very  earnest  petition, 
looking  up  to  him,  towering  above  them,  with  the  most 
affectionate  admiration. 

"Breaking  the  rules,"  said  he,  ignoring  their  request 
and  moving  up  the  hall.  "What  is  all  this  noise  about?" 

"Oh,  we  didn't  know  you  were  in  there!"  they  an- 
swered, saucily. 

Wilma,  glancing  back  as  they  turned  to  ascend  a  flight 
of  stairs  running  at  right  angles  with  the  hall,  felt  the 
scene  grate  upon  her  somehow,  and  observed  that  Miss 
Belmont's  face  gathered  an  expression  of  almost  severe 
disapproval. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK,  1 3 1 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

WITHIN  a  day  or  two  Wilmingard  was  settled  at  Mrs. 
Woods's  Boarding-House  for  Students  (as  a  neat  inscrip- 
tion above  the  front  door  described  it) ;  Miss  Belmont 
having  been  at  some  pains  to  secure  the  best  place  she 
could  find  for  her.  Mrs.  Woods  was  an  elderly  lady  of 
strict  respectability,  who  lived  quite  alone,  excepting  her 
boarders  and  a  German  girl,  Rachel,  who  helped  cook  for 
them.  Her  boarders  were  her  "  family,"  and  she  took 
more  care  and  responsibility  upon  herself  concerning  their 
welfare  and  behavior  than  is  usually  included  in  the  con- 
tract between  a  boarder  and  his  landlady.  She  was  jealous 
of  the  reputation  of  her  house,  and  required  the  most  cir- 
cumspect conduct  on  the  part  of  each  member.  She  knew 
the  academy  rules  and  regulations  by  heart  (and  kept  a 
copy  of  them  posted  up  in  her  dining-room),  and  re- 
ported scrupulously  whatever  violation  of  them  came  un- 
der her  observation,  with  such  honesty  of  purpose  that 
no  one  could  accuse  her  of  malice  or  evil  intent ;  simply 
rigid  justice.  She  performed  her  own  duty  always  with 
careful  exactness,  and  expected  the  same  of  others.  She 
would  not  wrong  her  milkman  out  of  a  half-penny,  nei- 
ther would  she  allow  him  to  defraud  her  of  a  drop  of  milk. 

When  Wilmingard  was  taken  over  and  introduced  to  her 
by  Miss  Belmont  herself  (a  fact  that  placed  her  high  in 
Mrs.  Woods's  respect),  there  were  already  five  boarders  in 
advance  of  her, — three  young  ladies  and  two  young  men. 
She  had  an  opportunity  to  study  their  faces  the  first  even- 
ing, as  they  sat  around  the  common  study-table;  a  com- 
mon study-room  and  table  being  Mrs.  Woods's  plan  to 
economize  light  and  fuel. 

The  young  men  were  good-looking,  bashful  fellows, 
fresh  from  some  out-of-the-way  country  place,  evidently, 
like  Wilma  herself.  They  had  been  hard-working  young 
men,  farmers  probably,  and  now  were  prepared  to  be 
hard  students,  having  a  conscientiousness  in  the  matter 
which  "town  boys"  seldom  feel,  being  "brought  up" 


I32 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


on  learning,  rather  than  \vork,  and  consequently  more 
or  less  satiated  with  books.  They  had  already  a  good 
foundation  of  arithmetic  and  other  solid  branches  for  an 
education. 

The  young  ladies  were  entirely  different.  One  of  them, 
Nellie  Beach,  had  a  beautiful  face, — though  there  was  not 
much  in  it, — a  solid,  compact  little  figure,  and  taciturn, 
good-natured  disposition.  She  was  hard  to  get  acquainted 
with ;  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  her  to  fasten  to. 
You  might  admire  her  to  your  heart's  content,  and  she 
would  only  smile  in  her  slow  way,  and  give  you  to  feel  that 
no  amount  of  flattery  could  make  her  vain,  so  you  flattered 
her  all  the  more.  Every  day  of  her  life  somebody  told 
her  in  a  spontaneous  burst  of  admiration  how  beautiful 
she  was.  The  girls  were  forever  twining  her  chestnut 
curls  around  their  fingers  and  sticking  rose-buds  among 
them,  and  squeezing  her  little,  soft,  white  hands,  and 
praising  her  Cinderella  foot.  And  Nellie  went  through 
it  all  with  a  stoical  good  nature,  and  plodded  on  through 
her  studies  with  a  hopelessness  of  ever  knowing  anything. 
It  would  make  anybody's  heart  ache  to  see  the  slow  tears 
force  themselves  into  her  pretty  eyes  over  some  incom- 
prehensible text-book  mystery.  The  other  two  young 
ladies  called  each  other  "Miss  Allen"  and  "Miss  Mac- 
Ivers"  with  punctilious  politeness.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen 
that  the  former  was  only  tolerated  by  the  latter  because 
they  happened  to  be  thrown  together  in  the  same  house. 

Of  Miss  Maclvers,  Wilmingard  stood  in  profound  and 
admiring  awe  from  the  first  moment  of  seeing  her.  She 
was  the  most  elegant  person  she  had  ever  met,  exquisite 
in  feature,  and  indescribably  majestic  in  form  and  carriage. 
She  had  a  certain  hauteur  that  blended  in  a  queenly  way 
with  her  grace  and  loveliness,  but  which  sprung  from 
pride  of  intellect  rather  than  pride  of  beauty.  She  was 
a  superior  scholar,  being  somewhere  in  the  mysterious 
labyrinths  of  Greek  and  Latin  and  the  higher  mathematics. 
She  was  a  favorite  with  Miss  Belmont  because  she  com- 
peted successfully  with  the  advanced  class  of  young  men, 
which  few  other  young  ladies  did  ;  and  Miss  Belmont 
had  some  pride  of  sex,  and  believed  in  the  even  balance 
of  masculine  and  feminine  minds,  other  things  being 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


133 


equal.  Miss  Belmont,  whose  great  mind  was  capable  of 
weighing  so  many  other  minds,  felt  that  Miss  Maclvers 
was  deserving  of  some  credit  for  her  intellectual  exertions 
in  view  of  her  great  beauty,  which  would  have  satisfied 
so  many  smaller  ambitions.  She  was  a  great  favorite  with 
Mr.  Ingraham  also,  being  in  every  respect  an  ornament 
and  an  honor  to  the  school.  But  she  took  no  advantage 
of  his  partiality,  and  was  not  in  the  least  compromised 
by  it.  She  was  very  correct  and  high-principled. 

As  soon  as  the  young  men  got  through  with  their  les- 
sons they  closed  their  books  and  went  up-stairs,  saying, 
"Good-night,"  awkwardly,  as  they  left  the  room,  to 
which  only  Miss  Maclvers,  rigidly  polite,  responded. 
Shortly  afterward  the  young  ladies  pushed  back  their 
chairs,  Nellie  giving  a  weary  little  sigh. 

"Poor  child,"  said  Miss  Maclvers,  pettingly,  with  a 
light  laugh,  "discouraged,  are  you?" 

Nellie  smiled  sadly,  and  replied  in  her  slow  way,  "  Oh, 
yes  ;  it  is  my  natural  state.  I  was  born  so." 

"  Too  bad.     Can't  I  help  you?" 

"  Not  unless  you  could  give  me  a  thimbleful  of  brains. 
I  don't  know  why  I  was  cut  off  with  such  a  short  allow- 
ance. If  I  just  had  enough  to  put  me  through  this 
binomial  theorem  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton's,  I  think  I  should 
be  satisfied." 

"You  can't  expect  to  have  everything,  Nellie,"  broke 
in  Miss  Allen.  "If  I  had  your  curls  I  would  let  Newton 
and  his  binomial  theorem  go  to Halifax." 

"  The  curls  would  help  you  a  good  deal  on  examination 
day,"  said  Nellie. 

"Oh,  do  you  know  we  are  going  to  have  a  new  music- 
teacher?"  said  Miss  Allen,  abruptly,  turning  to  Miss 
Maclvers,  who  looked  up  with  slightly-contracted  eye- 
brows ;  she  always  regarded  Miss  Allen  a  little  coldly  to 
keep  down  a  rising  familiarity,  to  which  that  young  lady 
was  somewhat  prone  unless  reasonably  checked. 

"A  new  music-teacher!  What  is  to  become  of  Mrs. 
Bramen?" 

"Oh,  she  is  to  remain  all  the  same.  Prof,  couldn't 
dispense  with  her,  the  little  beauty,"  Miss  Allen  returned, 
with  a  sneer. 

12 


1 34  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  she  should  be  thought  indispensable 
to  Mr.  Ingraham,"  said  Miss  Maclvers. 

Miss  Allen  reddened. 

"  Of  course  everybody  knows  he  admires  her.  Did 
you  never  see  him,  when  she  comes  in  and  goes  sweeping 
up  to  the  rostrum  with  her  long  trains,  and  shawl  trailing 
over  her  shoulder,  get  up  and  hand  her  a  chair,  as  if  she 
were  the  Queen  of  Sheba  ?  A  courtesy  he  never  shows 
the  preceptress." 

"The  preceptress  does  not  invite  it.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Bramen  only  comes  into  the  chapel  occasionally,  and  is 
a  sort  of  visitor.  What  were  you  going  to  say  about  this 
new  teacher?  Where  is  she  from ?" 

"From  the  East,"  said  Miss  Allen,  laughing.  "Isn't 
that  definite?  It  is  all  I  heard.  Her  name  is  Percy. 
Aint  it  a  pretty  name?  She  is  going  to  board  at  Petti- 
bone's." 

"At  Pettibone's !"  Miss  Maclvers  elevated  her  eye- 
brows. 

"Yes;  the  Pettibones  are  going  to  take  lessons  of 
her." 

"  I  thought  they  went  East  for  their  accomplish- 
ments." 

"  This  is  the  same  thing,  the  East  is  coming  to  them," 
said  Miss  Allen.  "It  seems  that  this  Miss  Percy  was  re- 
commended to  them  through  their  Episcopalian  bishop, 
or  somebody  of  immense  consequence,  and  of  course 
'  Congressman  Pettibone'  has  a  mighty  influence  with 
'  Principal  Ingraham,'  and  so  it  is  all  settled.  She  is  to 
teach  only  advanced  scholars;  so  I  suppose  she  is  away  up 
among  the  'old  masters,'  and  has  ripened  out  of  the  'new 
school,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  mean  to  take  of 
her." 

"You?"  said  Miss  Maclvers,  with  a  slight  curve  of 
her  lips. 

"  Yes.  I  detest  that  Mrs.  Bramen  so  much.  Anyhow, 
I  don't  think  a  woman  who  is  divorced  from  her  husband 
ought  to  be  taken  into  society  as  she  is." 

Punctually  when  the  clock  struck  ten,  Mrs.  Woods 
opened  the  study-room  door  and  came  in.  It  was  the 
signal  for  the  young  ladies  to  pile  up  their  books,  light 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


135 


their  several  small  fluid  lamps,  that  stood  on  a  little  shelf 
in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  go  to  bed.  " 

Mrs.  Woods  was  a  tall,  spare,  strongly-built  woman, 
straight  and  broad-shouldered,  with  a  form  like  a  man's. 
She  was  perhaps  sixty  years  of  age.  She  wore  her  "  back 
hair"  twisted  up  in  a  little  coil  behind,  and  the  front 
made  into  two  short,  iron-gray  curls,  put  smoothly  back 
behind  her  ears.  She  had  sharp,  coalrblack  eyes,  looking 
through  a  pair  of  spectacles.  She  said  not  a  word,  but 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  stove  and  rapped  her  snuff-box 
gravely,  and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  while  the  girls  were 
getting  ready. 

Miss  Beach  and  Miss  Maclvers  went  up-stairs.  Miss 
Allen  said,  taking  up  her  lamp,  "Come,  Miss  Lynne, 
you  and  I  are  to  be  room-mates,  I  suppose." 

Their  room  was  in  a  wing  of  the  house  opening  out  of 
the  study-room.  There  was  still  another  room  beyond 
it.  "That,"  said  Miss  Allen,  nodding  toward  it,  "used 
to  be  Miss  Maclvers's  room,  but  she  took  a  notion  to  go 
up-stairs  this  term.  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry." 

"Why?"  said  Wilmingard,  opening  her  eyes. 

Miss  Allen  laughed.  "  You  might  have  observed  that 
she  is  not  the  most  agreeable  person  one  could  have  for 
a  neighbor." 

"I  think  she  is  very  beautiful,  don't  you?"  said  Wil- 
mingard. 

"  Beautiful !  Of  course.  My  dear  girl,  you  don't  know 
what  a  common  remark  you  have  made  ;  everybody  says 
that.  That  is,  all  the  new  people  say  it ;  the  old  ones 
have  got  used  to  it." 

Miss  Allen,  herself,  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had  a 
finely  developed  figure ;  such  a  perfectness  and  robust- 
ness of  physique,  that,  as  she  stood  before  the  looking- 
glass  at  the  dressing-table,  combing  out  her  braided  hair, 
Wilmingard  instinctively  threw  back  her  shoulders. 

"What  is  your  name,  Miss  Lynne?"  she  asked,  ab- 
ruptly. "Your  given  name.  If  you  and  I  are  to  live 
together  we  don't  want  to  be  '  missing'  each  other  all  the 
time." 

"Wilmingard  ;  but  I  would  rather  be  called  Wilma." 

"Aha;  so  should  I.     'Wilmingard.'     What  a  funny 


1 36  HIGH  WA  TER-MARK. 

name  !  Dutch,  aint  it?  My  name  is  Evangeline,  but  I 
prefer  Eva, — with  the  long  sound  of  E,  you  know.  Dear  ! 
What  a  stupid  set  of  boarders  we  have  here  this  term. 
The  boys  I  mean." 

"They  are  strangers,  aren't  they  ?"  said  Wilma. 

"Yes;  and  likely  to  continue  so,"  said  Miss  Allen, 
laughing,  and  proceeding  to  unlace  her  shoes.  "  They're 
not  bad  looking,  but  there's  no  '  get-up'  to  them  ;  they're 
afraid  to  look  you  in  the  face.  By  the  way,  how  did  you 
happen  to  stop  at  Ingraham's?" 

"Mr.  Ingraham  came  down  to  the  hotel  and  took  me 
there  to  stay  until  they  could  find  me  a  boarding-place." 

"Ah  !     And  how  did  you  like  Mrs.  Ingraham?" 

"  I  didn't  see  much  of  her,"  said  Wilma,  evasively. 

"No;  I  suppose  not.  I've  heard  them  say  she's  very 
reserved.  I  have  never  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction. 
Don't  aspire  to  it.  I  suppose  you  fell  in  love  with  Miss 
Belmont?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Wilma. 

Miss  Allen  laughed.  "  I  just  thought  that  of  you.  I 
suspect  you  are  a  conscientious  little  Christian,  after  her 
own  heart.  Except  that  I  don't  think  she's  a  Christian  ; 
that  is,  a  denominational  Christian.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
she  reads  the  Bible,  though, — reads  it  beautifully  some 
mornings  in  chapel.  But  it  is  my  impression  she  doesn't 
belong  to  church." 

"How  could  one  be  a  Christian  and  not  belong  to 
church?"  said  Wilma. 

"  How  could  one  be  a  Christian  and  belong  to  church  ?" 
said  Miss  Allen.  "I  might  be  ever  so  good  a  Christian, 
but  when  it  came  to  church  I  wouldn't  know  where  to 
put  myself.  The  churches,  you  see,  my  dear,  must  tear 
down  some  of  their  partitions  and  dividing  walls,  and 
open  out,  like  our  parlors  with  folding  doors,  before  I 
consent  to  enter  any  of  them  to  remain  faithful  '  until 
death  do  us  part.'  " 

Wilmingard  had  gone  to  bed  and  lay  watching  Miss 
Allen's  movements.  She  felt  a  little  shocked  and  bewil- 
dered, and  did  not  reply. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  j  3  7 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

A  SHORT  time  after  Wilmingard  was  established  at 
school  and  at  Mrs.  Woods's,  the  academy  was  favored 
with  a  visit  from  the  governor  of  the  State,  and  his  wife 
and  daughter.  The  ladies  were  very  stiffly  and  richly 
dressed,  and  wore  that  peculiar  style  of  bonnet  known 
and  admired  some  years  ago  as  the  "Sky-Scraper"  (the 
word  defines  itself  to  the  uninformed),  the  fair  wearer  of 
which  rolled  her  demure  eyes  beneath  it  as  if  pleased  with 
the  magnitude  of  the  achievement,  and  innocently  un- 
conscious of  the  speculations  that  might  evolve  from  a 
philosophic  and  artistic  mind  regarding  either  its  utility 
or  beauty.  They  were  accommodated  with  seats  on  the 
rostrum,  and  sat  looking  down  upon  the  students  like 
grand  pictures  in  elegant  oil-colors.  Very  urbane,  agree- 
able pictures  ;  the  governor  had  a  benign  countenance 
with  a  few  deep  lines  about  his  eyes,  and  a  few  more  cir- 
cling away  from  his  mouth  upon  his  cheeks  that  gave  his 
face  the  appearance  of  perpetually  smiling.  The  wife, 
though  similar  in  general  appearance  as  husbands  and 
wives  well  mated  usually  are,  seemed  more  energetic  and 
wide  awake.  One  could  not  help  thinking — looking  at 
them — that  she  was  probably  the  "  power  behind  the 
throne"  that  had  lifted  him  into  eminence.  Besides  their 
daughter  they  were  accompanied  by  another  young  lady, 
a  little  older,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  one  of  them  exactly, 
but  appeared  like  a  cheap  imitation  done — or  a  little  over- 
done— in  water  colors.  Her  bonnet  was  a  trifle  higher, 
if  anything,  and  the  roses  in  it  more  vividly  red.  Her 
dress  was  just  as  stiff  perhaps,  without  the  satiny  appear- 
ance of  very  fine  silk.  As  for  her  bearing,  that  was 
haughtier  by  a  good  many  degrees  than  the  bearing  of 
any  other  member  of  the  party.  Her  role  in  life  was  the 
"  poor  relation  ;"  too  proud  to  be  the  recipient  of  pecu- 
niary aid,  but  ambitious  to  rank  with  her  grander  friends, 
and  inclined  to  be  a  little  envious  and  spiteful,  and  to 
stick  for  her  rights.  (I  do  not  go  behind  the  scenes  to 

12* 


1 38  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

give  this  explanation  of  the  young  lady ;  it  was  all  ap- 
parent to  the  observer.) 

Eyes,  of  course,  were  raised  furtively  and  respectfully, 
as  in  all  well-regulated  schools,  and  immediately  dropped 
again.  All  but  Wilmingard's, — after  the  first  timid  glance 
she  could  hardly  withdraw  hers  from  the  face  of  the  gov- 
ernor's daughter.  It  was  such  a  pure,  transparent  face  as 
to  complexion ;  such  a  highly  expressive,  animated  face, 
with  large,  droll,  black  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  curved  a 
little  as  if  meant  to  be  satirical,  but  was  far  too  sweet  and 
too  mischievous. 

After  they  had  sat  awhile  Mr.  Ingraham  took  them  out 
and  escorted  them  over  the  building,  exhibiting  the  vari- 
ous apartments  and  departments  as  if  it  were  some  sort 
of  museum.  Finally  they  went  up  into  the  observatory, 
which  was  a  dirty,  dusty,  disreputable  little  look-out, 
though  it  commanded  a  magnificent  view,  and  then  came 
back  to  the  chapel  and  gave  their  admiring  attention  to  a 
few  general  exercises ;  after  which  the  governor  was  re- 
quested to  address  the  school,  which  he  did  in  a  pleasant, 
off-hand  way,  making  his  remarks  both  encouraging  and 
complimentary,  as  school-visitors  are  expected  to  do. 
Following  this  they  took  their  departure,  Mr.  Ingraham 
accompanying  them  down-stairs,  whereupon  there  was  a 
general  buzz  and  confusion  until  the  preceptress  entered, 
following  the  classes  from  below,  and  hushed  it  up  with 
the  quiet  authority  of  her  presence. 

Of  all  the  faculty,  Miss  Belmont  was  the  most  rigid  dis- 
ciplinarian, and,  in  consequence,  was  not  a  general  favorite. 
There  was  a  certain  severity,  not  in  Miss  Belmont  herself, 
but  in  the  exercise  of  her  office  as  preceptress,  that  was 
effective  in  government,  but  not  in  winning  the  popular 
affection.  She  seated  herself  at  the  desk,  and  gathered 
up  and  put  in  order  all  Mr.  Ingraham's  books  and  papers, 
and  then,  though  conscious  that  the  little  clock  tacked  to 
the  wall  above  her  head  was  pointing  to  twelve,  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  and  commanded  five  minutes  study, 
sure  that  they  would  all  know  what  the  penance  was  for. 
The  room  became  at  once  breathlessly  still,  except  for  the 
loud  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  that  checked  off  the  seconds 
one  by  one.  No  one  knows  the  length  and  value  of  mo- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 39 

ments  until  they  are  thus  measured  for  him.  Three  min- 
utes passed,  and  then  Mr.  Ingraham  came  in,  walked  up 
to  the  desk,  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  literally  swept  Miss 
Belmont  out  of  the  way,  and  tapped  the  bell,  to  the  in- 
finite and  open  exultation  of  many  of  the  students,  though 
he  could  see  at  a  glance  how  the  matter  stood.  Miss 
Belmont's  face  crimsoned,  and  tears  of  mortification  forced 
themselves  into  her  eyes. 

"It  is  a  shame  !"  Miss  Maclvers  declared,  with  indig- 
nation, outside  in  the  hall. 

"  Served  her  right !"  Miss  Allen  retorted.  "  She  had 
no  business  to  keep  us  after  twelve ;  she  is  always  doing 
something  on  her  own  account." 

That  evening  Wilmingard  went  home  a  little  in  advance 
of  the  others,  which  she  almost  always  did,  not  yet  being 
on  locking-arm  terms  with  any  of  the  girls.  She  walked 
into  the  study-room,  and  had  just  put  her  books  down  on 
the  table,  when  a  rustle  near  the  window  startled  her,  and 
she  looked  around.  There  stood  the  governor's  daughter, 
just  arisen  from  a  chair.  Her  black  eyes,  directed  to 
Wilmingard,  were  red  and  swollen,  and  her  whole  face 
presented  a  tearful  appearance. 

"Did  I  frighten  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  gleam  of 
amusement. 

"Yes — no.  You  startled  me  a  little,"  said  Wilma. 
"Are  you — are  you  alone?" 

"  No;  Miss  Morris  is  here;"  nodding  toward  Wilma's 
bedroom  door. 

"  Ah  !  you  have  come  to  school  and  are  going  to  board 
here?" 

"  Exactly.  You  fathom  the  whole  mystery  of  me  at  a 
glance,"  laughing.  "Do  you  know,  I  feel  a  little  ac- 
quainted with  you.  I  met  your  eyes  several  times  this 
morning,  in  school." 

"  Yes,"  said  Wilma.     "  I  remember." 

"Seeing  there  is  nobody  here  to  present  us  to  each 
other,  you  must  tell  me  your  name." 

"Wilma  Lynne." 

"'Wilma  Lynne;'  that  is  musical.  Mine  is  Belle 
Raymond." 

"You  are  the  governor's  daughter?"  said  Wilma,  her 


1 40  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

consciousness  adjusting  itself  to  the  dignity  of  the  young 
lady's  position.  "They  said  one  of  the  young  ladies 
was  the  governor's  daughter,  and  I  was  almost  sure  it  was 
you." 

"Because  I  look  like  my  papa,  I  suppose." 

"  Were  you  feeling  homesick  just  now?"  Wilma  asked, 
sympathetically. 

"  A  little.     I  have  been  crying." 

She  laughed,  and  brushed  the  tears  away  with  her  hands. 
The  quaint,  unnecessary  admission  was  so  odd  and  funny 
that  Wilma  laughed,  too. 

The  governor's  daughter  was  not  very  formidable,  in 
tears,  at  least.  She  was  a  very  small  pattern  of  a  young 
lady,  divested  of  her  bonnet  and  wraps,  though  evidently 
some  years  Wilma's  senior.  She  was  very  fragile  and  deli- 
cate, and  yet  had  a  spirited  expression  and  bearing  that 
seemed  to  overcome  her  frail  stature.  Even  her  wet  eyes 
had  little  dampening  effect  on  her  lively,  animated  face. 

She  had  a  quaint,  peculiar  dignity  and  primness  in  her 
manner  and  in  her  dress  that  strongly  individualized  her. 
She  was  one  of  the  few  people  who  give  character  to  their 
clothes  and  possessions, — whose  gloves  and  books  tell 
who  they  belong  to. 

"I  suppose  I  may  call  you  Wilma,  may  I  not?"  she 
asked.  "  You  are  quite  a  little  girl  beside  me." 

Wilma  opened  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  small!"  adding  gravely,  "but  I'm 
old."  From  that  time  she  assumed  an  attitude  of  kindly 
guardianship  toward  Wilma,  based  on  her  seniority. 
"You  may  call  me  by  my  given  name,  also,"  she  said. 
"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you  I  was  christened  Arabella, 
but  I  am  never  called  so  except  by  my  brothers,  to  tease 
me,  or  by  my  friend,  Matilda,  when  she  wishes  to  be  par- 
ticularly impressive." 

"  Is  that  the  young  lady  who  is  with  you  here?"  asked 
Wilma. 

"Yes;  that  is  Miss  Morris." 

Just  then  the  young  lady,  who  resembled  a  picture 
in  water  colors,  made  her  appearance,  and  Miss  Ray- 
mond presented  her  with  an  air  of  parade  which  she 
usually  affected  toward  her  friend.  Miss  Morris  nodded 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  141 

coldly,  and  made  her  way  to  a  large  arm-chair  that  con- 
spicuously occupied  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  seemed 
to  be  always  offering  itself  to  the  most  important  personage 
present.  She  had  a  weary,  exhausted  air,  as  though  she 
had  sorted  over  all  the  things  life  offered,  and  found  noth- 
ing to  her  taste. 

"Tell  me  the  names  of  all  the  boarders;  how  many  are 
there?"  said  Miss  Raymond,  unconsciously  lowering  her 
voice  out  of  an  unacknowledged  deference  to  Miss  Morris, 
which  her  presence  seemed  to  command. 

"Five,  beside  me,"  said  Wilma,  and  named  them, 
while  Miss  Raymond  mentally  checked  them  off.  "  Miss 
Maclvers  (always  first  and  foremost),  Miss  Beach,  Miss 
Allen,  Mr.  Gray,  and  Mr.  Liebenwald." 

"  Liebenwald?  What  a  pretty  name,  and  those  German 
names  always  mean  something." 

"Yonder  they  come,"  said  Wilma,  glancing  from  the 
window. 

The  three  young  ladies  were  coming  in  at  the  gate ;  fol- 
lowing them  the  two  young  men. 

"  Dear  me  !  Can  you  get  me  through  an  introduction 
to  all  those?"  said  Miss  Raymond. 

Wilma  laughed,  and  said  she  would  try.  She  was  saved 
the  ordeal.  Miss  Maclvers  came  first,  and  was  duly  pre- 
sented, after  which  she  swept  Wilma  aside,  and  went 
through  the  ceremony  with  the  other  four  herself.  Then 
Miss  Raymond  brought  Miss  Morris  into  notice  with 
another  flourish,  and  the  whole  party  began  to  assimilate. 

In  chemistry  it  is  found  that  certain  ingredients  will 
not  mix  without  the  aid  of  certain  other  ingredients.  It 
seemed  that  the  governor's  daughter  was  just  the  element 
needed  in  Mrs.  Woods's  household  to  make  it  harmonious. 
In  the  academy,  also,  she  came  to  be  a  leading  spirit. 
Whether  it  was  that  she  unconsciously  presumed  upon 
her  station  a  little, — not  noticeably  or  disagreeably, — or 
whether  from  much  petting  and  adulation  resulting  from 
her  fragility  and  winsome  prettiness,  or  because  of  an 
amusing  and  childlike  confidence  and  assurance,  she 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  always  that  people  would 
like  her  as  a  matter  of  course.  And  so  they  did  like 
her,  and  she  came  to  rule  in  an  artless,  kindly  way.  She 


142 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


founded  a  fellowship  with  all  around  her  on  the  broadest 
basis.  She  was  as  many-sided  and  as  bright  and  trans- 
parent as  a  prism,  and  turned  a  sunny  face  to  every  one. 
There  is  no  disparagement  in  that ;  many  of  us  are  like 
pictures,  fair  upon  one  side  but  blank  on  the  other.  She 
thought  no  one  with  whom  she  was  thrown  unworthy  her 
best  efforts  to  entertain.  If  a  bashful,  shrinking  girl  sat 
beside  her  in  class  or  walked  with  her  from  the  academy, 
she  was  all  kindness  and  adaptation.  If  a  higher-depart- 
ment young  man  offered  her  polite  attention,  she  met  it 
with  lady-like  grace.  Even  Gray  and  Liebenwald — bash- 
ful fellows  that  they  were  and  never  aspiring  to  the  no- 
tice of  any  other  young  ladies — employed  secret  strategy 
against  each  other  for  the  privilege  of  carrying  an  um- 
brella over  her  when  it  rained,  or  doing  any  such  small 
service ;  though  neither  of  the  good  souls  ever  suspected 
the  other  of  such  petty  meanness  ! 

She  was  an  inimitable  mimic,  and  had  a  remarkable 
talent  for  amusing  and  entertaining  an  audience.  Now 
and  then  of  an  evening  the  spirit  of  acting  came  upon 
her,  and  she  would  put  the  whole  little  circle  around  the 
study-table  into  such  an  uproar  of  laughter  that  Mrs. 
Woods  would  throw  open  the  door  and  appear  on  the 
threshold — her  little  iron-gray  curls  fairly  jingling — to 
see  what  upon  earth  was  the  matter ! 

To  Wilma,  however,  there  was  something  exceedingly 
pathetic  in  her  mirth ;  she  was  so  appealingly  delicate 
and  frail  in  body,  though  determinedly  buoyant  in  spirit. 
Many  times  she  exhausted  all  her  small  stock  .of  strength 
to  entertain,  and  then  sank  back  in  her  place  at  the  table 
and  dropped  her  head  in  her  little  blue-veined  hands, 
and  fell  to  work  gravely  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  for  she 
was  conscientiously  studious  and  industrious. 
*  One  evening  she  invited  Wilmingard  to  go  with  her  to 
call  upon  Miss  Belmont,  a  thing  none  of  the  other  young 
ladies  had  ever  thought  of  doing.  They  rang  the  bell, 
and  Mr.  Ingraham  came  along  the  hall  in  slippered  feet 
and  opened  the  door,  his  hair  rumpled  as  usual,  and  a 
pen  in  his  hand. 

"Well,"  said  he,  a  smile  breaking  out  like  a  ray  of 
sunshine  from  under  his  cloudy  brows. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


143 


He  took  them  each  by  the  hand  and  drew  them  towards 
his  study-door. 

"I  don't  know  where  anybody  is,"  eaid  he;  "so  come 
in  here." 

"Oh,  we  called  to  see  Miss  Belmont,"  said  Miss  Ray- 
mond. "  Isn't  she  at  home?" 

"Miss  Belmont!"  said  Mr.  Ingraham,  with  his  pecu- 
liar combination  of  frown  and  smile.  "I  am  getting 
jealous  of  Miss  Belmont." 

"Oh,  don't  begrudge  her  such  a  poor  little  portion  as 
us !"  retorted  Miss  Raymond.  "  You  have  all  the  others." 

"  Oh,  no ;  you  flatter  me.  Well,  do  you  wish  me  to 
send  for  Miss  Belmont?  I  presume  she  is  up-stairs." 

"  Perhaps  we  might  go  right  up?" 

"  I  see  !  You  want  her  all  to  yourself.  Be  off  with 
you  then ;  Miss  Lynne  knows  the  way." 

He  laughed  and  went  into  his  study  and  shut  the  door. 
As  they  turned  to  go  up-stairs,  they  were  startled  by  the 
apparition  of  Mrs.  Ingraham,  who  had  opened  the  sitting- 
room  door  and  stood  looking  out.  Wilma  bowed  and 
they  passed  on. 

"  Heavens  !  what  was  that,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  half- 
way up  the  stairs  :  "a  ghost  or  a  lunatic?" 

"It  was  Mrs.  Ingraham,"  said  Wilmingard. 

"  You  don't  tell  me  !  What  a  cheerful  domestic  estab- 
lishment this  must  be  with  such  a  head  !  I  have  heard 
whispers  about  it;  but  I  never  listen  to  whispers." 

They  knocked  at  Miss  Belmont's  door,  and  her  voice 
said,  "Come  in."  She  was  seated  at  her  table  with  her 
books  before  her.  She  sprang  up  apologetically,  and 
went  forward  holding  out  a  hand  to  each,  her  eyes 
beaming. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  supposed  it  was  James  bringing 
in  the  letters." 

She  led  them  over  to  the  window.  The  sun  was  almost 
down,  and  it  was  growing  dusky  in  the  room. 

"Now,  we  have  broken  in  upon  your  studies?"  said 
Miss  Raymond,  ruefully,  glancing  at  the  table. 

"Oh,  no;  at  least  it  is  no  matter.  I  am  glad  to  have 
them  broken  in  upon  so." 

"  I  always  want  to  know  my  teachers  personally,"  Miss 


144 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


Raymond  went  on  by  way  of  apology  for  intruding.  "  You 
see,  we  don't  get  very  near  to  you  in  the  school-room." 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  smiling.  "  There  is  a 
kind  of  conventionality  in  the  relation  of  teacher  and 
pupil  that  acts  as  a  sort  of  barrier  between  them.  I  am 
glad  you  think  it  worth  while  to  step  over  the  barrier  and 
come  a  little  nearer  to  me.  It  is  you  who  must  do  it,  you 
know,  my  dears.  We  teachers  feel  a  great  delicacy  about 
thrusting  our  grave  presence  upon  our  pupils  out  of 
school." 

"Oh,  think  of  it!"  said  Miss  Raymond.  "And  we 
feel  a  proportionate  delicacy  about  forcing  our  frivolous 
selves  upon  you.  We  shall  have  to  strike  a  happy  medium 
somewhere." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  laughing.  "  I  have 
just  been  making  a  call,"  she  continued  presently,  "  upon 
our  new  music-teacher,  Miss  Percy." 

"  Ah  !  has  she  arrived,  then  ?"  asked  Miss  Raymond. 

"Yes;  she  came  this  morning.  Do  either  of  you  in- 
tend to  take  lessons?" 

"I  do,"  said  Wilma.  "But  I  suppose  I  shall  take  of 
Mrs.  Bramen.  Miss  Percy  is  only  going  to  teach  the  ad- 
vanced scholars,  I  have  heard." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.  Have  you  a  great  taste  for  music, 
or  a  great  desire  to  learn  it,  my  dear?" 

"I  should  like  to  learn  it,"  said  Wilma;  "I  don't 
know  about  my  taste." 

"She  sings  sweetly!"  exclaimed  Miss  Raymond. 
"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Miss  Belmont,  Wilma  is  the 
most  wonderfully  and  variously  gifted  young  person  I 
have  ever  met.  She  can  draw  beautifully,  and  she  can 
write  poetry,  and  improvise  lovely  little  airs  on  the 
piano,  and  do  anything  she  turns  her  attention  to.  I 
believe  she  could  win  distinction  in  any  given  direction 
if  she  would  narrow  down  to  it." 

"Don't  you  persuade  her  to  'narrow  down'  to  any- 
thing!" said  Miss  Belmont,  smiling  and  shaking  her 
head.  "There  is  time  enough  yet  for  that.  Few  persons 
possess  more  than  one  dominant  talent  or  faculty;  and  it 
is  sure  to  come  out,  and  give  the  key  to  their  life  all  in 
good  time.  We  must  begin  by  cultivating  our  whole 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 45 

mind  and  nature  uniformly.  The  starving  of  one  faculty 
will  never  feed  another, — for  this  reason,  that  each  par- 
ticular faculty  requires  its  own  particular  nourishment. 
You  cannot  take  from  one  and  give  to  another.  Every 
branch  of  art  or  science  we  master  is  the  opening  of  a 
new  window  letting  in  light  upon  the  soul.  Before  you 
give  yourself  to  a  specialty,  better  open  all  the  windows 
possible,  and  get  a  strong  light  upon  what  you  wish  to 
do.  You  can  accomplish  very  little,  my  dears,  until  your 
whole  understanding  is  awakened." 

"  Why,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  laughing,  "  I  have  always 
thought  one  ought  to  begin  life  by  marking  out  a  path, 
and  travelling  in  it  with  scrupulous  exactness,  never  de- 
viating from  it.  And  you  can't  imagine  how  many  paths 
I  have  laid  out  for  myself!  I  have  taken  music-lessons 
and  drawing-lessons,  and  lessons  in  oil-painting,  and  in 
all  kinds  of  fancy  work,  and  given  myself  to  each  par- 
ticular thing  unreservedly,  for  the  time  being,  with  a 
solemn  resolve  to  pursue  it  faithfully  through  life.  There 
is  consistency  for  you  !" 

Miss  Belmont  laughed.  "  I  should  hardly  call  it  in- 
consistency, my  dear.  It  is  right  to  give  one's  whole 
attention  to  the  thing  in  hand.  But,  perhaps,  not  all  of 
us  need  ever  mark  out  a  special  path,  or  follow  a  special 
pursuit." 

"  Who  of  us  ought,  and  who  of  us  ought  not?"  asked 
Wilma. 

"I  suppose  only  those  who  have  genius  need  follow 
some  particular  bent,"  interposed  Miss  Raymond. 

"  Then  if  one  have  the  gift  of  poetry,  you  would  say 
he  must  write  it?"  said  Miss  Belmont. 

"  Why,  certainly." 

"These  faculties  or  talents  of  ours,"  said  Miss  Bel- 
mont, "all  endow  us  with  innate  power  and  strength. 
Shall  we  give  out  this  power  and  strength  always  through 
pen  or  pencil  ?  May  we  not  simply  live  beautiful  and 
grand  things,  the  conceptions  of  which  are  born  in  us, 
rather  than  try  to  represent  them  outside  of  ourselves  ?  Not 
every  poet  can  write,  not  every  artist  can  paint.  There 
are  only  a  few  who  can  make  the  world  vibrate  ;  the  most 
of  us  have  only  power  enough  to  be  felt  by  a  little  circle 

G  13 


1 46  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

around  us.  Shall  we  not  rather  give  out  the  best  there  is 
in  us  in  our  daily  work,  than  concentrate  our  life  in  a 
poem  or  a  picture,  and  throw  it  out  on  the  World's  wide 
sea,  maybe  to  float  and  be  picked  up,  maybe  to  go 
down  and  be  forever  lost?  Ah  !  the  lives  that  have  been 
wrecked,  the  noble  hearts  that  have  been  broken,  the 
eyes  that  have  grown  weary  with  watching  and  waiting 
for  tidings  of  the  little  waifs  sent  out  on  the  wasteful 
waters  !  Even  those  to  whom  glad  tidings  have  come  so 
often,  feel  them  turn  to  ashes  on  their  lips." 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  Miss  Belmont  rose  and 
lighted  a  lamp  that  stood  on  the  table,  and  turned  to  say, 
with  a  smile,  "  I  beg  pardon  for  making  you  such  a  long 
speech.  I  forget  myself,  and  think  I  have  a  class  before 
me  instead  of  some  young  lady  visitors." 

Her  eyelashes  glistened  with  tears ;  she  did  not  brush 
them  away,  perhaps  did  not  know  they  were  there. 

"Oh,  pray  do  not  apologize!"  said  Miss  Raymond. 
"You  don't  know  how  glad  we  are  to  have  you  talk  to 
us  outside  of  text- books !  It  brings  us  so  much  nearer  to 
you,  somehow." 

"  That  is  the  grand  humanity  principle,  my  dear,"  said 
Miss  Belmont.  "  Through  it  we  wield  our  strongest  in- 
fluence. We  come  nearer  to  people  as  individuals  than 
in  any  other  way.  As  I  said,  not  many  of  us  can  so 
transfer  our  souls  to  a  picture  or  a  poem,  as  to  come  into 
closest  communion  with  other  souls.  But  nearly  all  of  us 
can,  by  individual  presence  and  personal  intercourse, 
touch  some  hearts  and  better  some  lives." 

"  I  am  going  to  begin  to  look  for  the  meaning  of  every- 
body !"  laughed  Miss  Raymond,  rising  as  she  spoke.  "  I 
am  going  to  say,  See  here,  madam,  or  sir,  what  are  you 
living  for?  And  I  will  make  them  teach  me  their  lesson. 
Why  not  study  people  as  well  as  books?  A  life  lived  must 
be  as  interesting  as  a  life  written." 

"  Not  everybody — and  not  every  book — has  a  mean- 
ing," said  Miss  Belmont,  smiling.  "  Must  you  go?" 

"  I  think  we  must;  the  study-bell  will  soon  ring,"  said 
Miss  Raymond. 

Miss  Belmont  went  to  the  door  with  them,  and  said 
good-night,  and  returned  to  her  books — but  with  a  heart 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  147 

too  deeply  stirred  for  study — a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a 
light  in  her  eyes.  She  had  spent  her  strength  for  that 
night  in  something  outside  of  books,  and  felt  the  better 
for  it. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"  DOES  it  strike  you  that  Miss  Belmont  is  a  little  bit 
self-contradictory,  Wilma?"  Miss  Raymond  asked,  going 
home. 

"  How?"  said  Wilma. 

"She  warned  us  so  solemnly  to-night  against  narrow- 
ing down  to  any  one  thing;  and  you  know  she  often 
preaches  to  us  in  school  about  having  an  aim." 

"Oh,  but  I  think,"  said  Wilma,  "the  one  refers  to 
our  education  and  the  other  to  our  life  and  character." 

"What  rare  discrimination,  Wilma.  Tell  me  you  are 
not  'gifted'!  Now  I,  with  my  beclouded  brain,  that 
can't  see  a  thing  unless  somebody  shows  it  to  me,  should 
have  meanly  accused  that  grand  woman  of  inconsistency  ! 
I  beg  her  pardon.  Of  course  you  are  right.  A  person's 
character  is  not  dependent  on  his  pursuit.  But  do  you 
think  we  ought  to  live  to  illustrate  a  principle,  and  every 
word  we  speak  and  every  act  we  do  be  charged  with  it  ? 
What  stiff  machines  we  would  be  !  Oh,  heavens  !  How  I 
have  despaired  over  that  terrible  sentence, — '  For  every 
idle  word  spoken  ye  shall  give  an  account  in  the  day  of 
judgment.'  What  a  formidable  array  will  be  brought  up 
against  poor  little  me  !  Sometimes  I  have  tried  to  im- 
agine the  scene.  The  awful  question  is  propounded, — 
'  Arabella  Raymond'  (of  course  I  should  be  called  '  Ara- 
bella' in  a  blood-curdling  way),  '  what  did  you  mean  by 
saying  so  and  so?'  repeating  some  of  my  most  meaningless 
remarks.  And  I,  trembling  and  stammering,  try  to  set 
forth  some  good  and  sufficient  reason,  and  signally  fail. 
What  then  ?  Alas !  Imagination  stands  appalled.  Oh, 
Wilma !  What  do  you  suppose  will  become  of  those  men 
who  have  preached  these  dreadful  things  to  us  and  frozen 
our  hearts,  without  bringing  forward  the  all-merciful  love 


1 48  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

of  the  tender  Father,  who  cannot  look  angrily  on  the 
playful  gambols  of  his  little  children  any  more  than  on 
the  sports  of  kittens  and  lambkins,  and  the  music  of 
birds  and  falling  waters  !  And  yet,  I  suppose  those  men 
believed  what  they  said,  and  in  all  kindness  gave  us  warn- 
ing. The  same  Father  that  pities  us  who  are  hurt  by 
their  harsh  interpretations,  also  deals  kindly  with  them. 
How  much  we  all  stand  in  need  of  the  Divine  Love  ! 
We  all  err  on  this  side  or  that.  As  for  myself,  I  believe 
I  should  rather  err  on  the  broad  side  than  on  the 
narrow." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Wilma,  "the  better  way  is  to  look 
after  our  motives,  and  see  that  they,  at  least,  are  good. 
I  believe  they  are  the  law  we  shall  be  tried  by." 

"  Why,  you  little  liberalist !  Will  you  let  every  man 
set  up  his  own  tribunal?  It  is  true  that  if  the  heart  is 
pure  it  does  not  matter  much  about  the  little  rivulets  that 
bubble  through  our  lives  in  words  and  acts.  Wilma,  I 
think  those  people  are  the  best  who  never  have  any  per- 
sonal ambition,  or  wish  to  accomplish  certain  things  for 
themselves,  but  just  go  on  doing,  and  doing  whatever 
comes  in  their  way,  losing  themselves  in  others.  We 
sometimes  say  their  lives  are  wasted,  and  we  praise  the 
men  and  women  who  have  achieved  greatness  for  them- 
selves. But  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  hereafter  those 
wasted  lives  will  be  gathered  up  and  made  into  the 
brightest  crowns.  There  must  be  an  even  balance  some- 
where. Take  me  !  Oh,  Wilma  !  I  am  a  poor  little  piece 
of  drift-wood  on  the  stream  of  time.  What  shall  I  be 
on  the  great  ocean  of  eternity!" 

Her  hand  trembled  on  Wilma's  arm  and  her  whole 
little  frame  suddenly  shook  with  sobs.  She  recovered 
herself  in  a  moment  and  laughed,  and  replied  to  Wilma's 
expression  of  pain  and  pity:  "Oh,  I  am  not  under- 
rating myself,  dear ;  don't  you  look  so  shocked  and 
grieved  !  I  flatter  myself  I  am  just  as  strong  and  brave, 
and  of  as  much  consequence  as  anybody — in  spirit-  If 
only  I  were  not  cooped  up  in  such  a  poor  little  shell  of  a 
body  !  There  is  where  nature  has  been  unfair  with  me; 
she  hasn't  given  me  a  chance,  you  see.  But  then  she 
saves  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  effort.  Instead  of 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


149 


responding  to  the  invitation  to  be  up  and  doing,  which 
is  liberally  extended  to  all  mankind,  I  sit  still  and  send 
in  my  regrets  with  this  grave  apology:  'The  spirit  is 
willing  but  the  flesh  is  weak.'  Oh,  that  little  word  '  if,' 
Wilma  !  What  a  comforter  it  is  and  what  a  flatterer.  It 
gives  us  room  for  so  much  self-gratulation  !  It  is  such  a 
strong,  invulnerable  wall  that  no  suspicious  doubt  can 
creep  through  it  to  wound  our  vanity.  I  can  shelter 
myself  behind  it,  you  see,  and  boast  what  I  might  do 
with  all  the  more  valor  because  I  shall  not  be  put  to  the 

test.     What  grand  things  we  could  accomplish  if ! 

Oh,  my  dear,  it  has  stood  in  the  way  of  far  more  glorious 
battles  than  have  ever  been  fought." 

Wilma  was  silent,  wondering  whether  she  was  in  earnest 
or  not.  It  was  difficult  to  tell,  her  tone  was  so  light  and 
her  eyes  gleaming  full  of  drollery  in  the  moonlight,  and 
her  red  lips  curved  with  a  half-mocking  smile.  Yet  her 
words  seemed  to  tremble  with  a  weighty  earnestness. 

The  other  girls,  when  they  got  home,  were  discussing 
the  new  music-teacher.  The  young  men  had  betaken 
themselves  up-stairs. 

"  Has  anybody  seen  her?"  Miss  Raymond  asked. 

"  I  saw  her  on  the  street  with  Ella  Pettibone,"  said  Miss 
Beach ;  and  Miss  Allen  took  the  subject  away  from  her : 
"  Nellie  says  she  is  wonderfully  fair  and  has  heavenly  blue 
eyes,  and  dresses  in  pale  gray." 

"  Miss  Beach  has  remarkable  powers  of  observation," 
said  Miss  Morris,  with  languid  irony.  "  I  had  an  intro- 
duction to  this  extraordinary  person  this  evening,  but  I 
failed  to  discover  the  color  of  her  eyes ;  all  that  im- 
pressed itself  on  me  was  the  coldness  of  her  face." 

"You,  Matilda!  When  and  where,  pray?"  said  Miss 
Raymond. 

"  I  had  occasion  to  go  up  to  the  academy  after  tea," 
Miss  Morris  proceeded  to  explain.  "  I  had  forgotten 
some  of  my  books.  The  janitor  hadn't  shut  up  yet.  Mr. 
Ingraham  and  Miss  Pettibone  and  Miss  Percy  came  up 
and  went  into  the  ladies'  hall  to  superintend  the  putting 
up  of  a  new  grand  piano." 

"I  heard  there  was  to  be  one,"  parenthesized  Miss 
Allen. 

13* 


'5° 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK, 


"  Miss  Turner  was  with  me,"  Miss  Morris  added,  "  and 
Mr.  Ingraham  introduced  us.  She  looked  at  us  as  if  we 
were  a  different  variety  of  the  genus  homo  from  any  she 
had  ever  seen  before." 

"Why,  Matilda,  is  she  a  supercilious  person?"  Miss 
Raymond  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  would  call  it ;  she  is  as  distant 
as  the  North  Pole." 

"Did  she  play?" 

"  No ;  she  swept  the  keys  to  see  how  the  instrument 
had  stood  its  journey,  and  said  it  was  out  of  tune.  For 
my  part,  I  don't  think  it  is." 

"Why?" 

"  I  think  she  was  simply  too  disagreeable  to  gratify  our 
curiosity  to  hear  her." 

"  Is  she  disagreeable?" 

"  Dreadfully.     Did  you  not  think  so,  Miss  Beach  ?" 

Poor  Nellie,  wounded  a  moment  before  by  Miss  Morris's 
sarcasm,  returned,  with  a  little  effort  at  the  same  thing 
herself,  "I  am  afraid  I  was  not  penetrating  enough  to 
discover  it.  I  thought  she  had  a  sad,  sweet  face,  and 
looked  too  young  and  innocent  to  be  alone  in  the  world, 
as  somebody  said  she  was." 

Miss  Morris  smiled,  well  enough  pleased  to  have  her 
small  fire  take  effect.  Nothing  suited  her  better  than  a 
clashing  of  arms.  Miss  Maclvers  laughed.  She  and 
Miss  Morris  had  long  ago  openly  declared  war. 

"The  needle  attracts  the  loadstone,"  she  remarked. 
"Nellie  is  not  the  sort  of  magnet,  perhaps,  to  draw  out 
'  disagreeableness.'  ' 

"A  body  with  no  polarity  neither  attracts  nor  repels," 
retorted  Miss  Morris.  She  was  not  especially  spiteful  to- 
ward pretty,  quiet  little  Nellie;  she  cut  them  all  up  as 
occasion  offered. 

"  Who  of  us  are  interested  in  music?"  Miss  Raymond 
asked,  to  change  the  subject.  "  Shall  you  take  lessons, 
Matilda?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Miss  Morris,  with  emphasis.  She 
was  a  fine  scholar  ;  superior  even  to  Miss  Maclvers  in  some 
things,  and  felt  above  mere  accomplishments. 

"You  will,  I  suppose,  Miss  Allen?" 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  j  5  ! 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Allen.  She  always  took  music 
lessons  and  carried  about  a  ponderous  instruction-book 
and  rolls  of  sheet  music,  though  nobody  ever  heard  her 
play. 

"Miss  Percy,  I  hear,  is  also  a  fine  elocutionist,"  said 
Miss  Maclvers  to  Miss  Raymond,  whom  she  usually  ad- 
dressed. "  She  intends  teaching  a  class,  I  believe." 

"Does  she?  Oh,  that  will  be  grand  ;  I  shall  vote  my- 
self a  member  of  that  class,"  Miss  Raymond  returned. 

"You  read  very  well  now,  Arabella,"  said  Miss  Morris, 
patronizingly. 

"Yes;  I  have  been  told  I  have  a  shrill  voice  and  tol- 
erably distinct  enunciation.  Girls,  would  you  like  to  hear 
me  declaim?" 

She  got  up  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  with 
her  hands  down  at  her  sides,  in  the  stiffest  attitude. 

"Ahem! 

"  'Tis  not  enough  the  voice  be  sound  and  clear, 
'Tis  modulation  that  must  charm  the  earl" 

She  gave  the  whole  piece  in  ringing,  metallic  tones,  all 
the  girls  laughing  until  the  tears  came  into  their  eyes, 
except  Wilmingard,  who  seemed  preoccupied. 

"Well,  Wilma,  my  dear;  you  don't  applaud,"  said 
Miss  Raymond. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  hear,"  said  Wilma. 

"Is  the  child  deaf?"  exclaimed  Miss  Allen. 

"I  mean  I  did  not  listen,"  said  Wilma,  blushing. 

"  What  a  wretched  compliment !"  said  Miss  Raymond. 
"  Oh,  I  know  !  Wilma  would  rather  hear  me  sing." 

She  crossed  her  small  hands  demurely  and  began  chant- 
ing, in  a  doleful  strain,  "  The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp." 

"Oh,  don't!  please  don't !"  said  Wilma.  It  seemed 
ghastly  to  her. 

Miss  Raymond  instantly  desisted,  and  took  her  place 
at  the  table. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  Prof,  would  give  up  his  elocution 
class  to  anybody  else,"  said  Miss  Allen.  "He  prides 
himself  so  much  on  his  own  reading." 

"With  good  reason,"  said  Miss  Maclvers.  "I  think 
he  renders  some  things  better  than  any  professional  elo- 


152 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


cutionist  I  have  ever  heard.  I  like  him  especially  in  the 
tragic  and  pathetic." 

"Oh,  yes!"  exclaimed  Miss  Raymond.  "He  might 
have  been  a  Booth  or  a  Forrest,  if  he  had  taken  to  the 
stage.  He  has  touched  some  chords  in  me,  I  know,  that 
were  never  attuned  before." 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Wilma ;  I  was  down  to  the  post-office 
this  evening  and  got  a  letter  for  you,"  said  Miss  Allen, 
tossing  it  across  the  table.  "  I  came  near  forgetting  it." 

It  was  from  Charley,  and  Wilma's  face  flushed.  She 
was  not  expecting  it.  Charley  made  it  a  point  of  writing 
at  a  stated  time,  once  a  week.  This  was  an  "extra." 

She  waited  until  the  study-hour  was  ended  and  the 
others  had  all  left  the  room,  and  asked  Mrs.  Woods's  per- 
mission to  remain  long  enough  to  read  it, — which  was 
conditionally  granted. 

"  If  you'll  be  sure  an'  blow  the  light  out,  an'  not  set  the 
house  a-fire  when  you  git  through,"  Mrs.  Woods  said, 
"you  kin  stay  as  long  as  you  want  to.  It's  my  bed- 
time." 

She  went  out,  and  Wilma  had  a  few  delicious  moments 
to  herself,  which,  these  days,  did  not  often  occur.  It 
seemed  as  if  her  little,  quiet  world  was  dropping  far  be- 
hind the  broader,  busier  school-life.  Of  course  she  would 
go  back  to  it  again,  she  believed,  never  thinking  how  like 
a  river  life  is,  flowing  on  and  on,  growing  wider  and 
wider. 

One  thing  is  true ;  that  if  we  stretch  our  boundaries 
they  will  never  spring  back  again.  We  ourselves  may 
shrivel  and  our  lives  not  fill  the  channel  we  have  cut,  but 
we  cannot  narrow  the  lines  our  broadest  experience  has 
drawn. 

Charley's  letters  were  an  outlet  into  even  a  bigger, 
busier  world  than  Wilma  lived  in.  He  was  a  bold  sea- 
man, striking  out  vigorously  into  all  depths, — except  that 
his  element  was  tnought  instead  of  water.  He  touched 
all  boundaries,  it  seemed  to  her, — if  he  did  not  go  be- 
yond them  !  And  he  sketched  for  her,  with  his  rapid  pen, 
all  the  beautiful  things  he  felt  and  saw.  And  her  heart 
quivered  with  the  ecstasy  of  the  thought, — He  is  mine, 
this  grand,  noble  spirit  is  mine  by  the  supreme  right  of 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


153 


love  !  He  was  ambitious  for  her  as  for  himself.  He  tried 
to  keep  her  soul  keyed  to  the  world's  thundering  march. 
But  Wilma's  life  had  not  risen  out  of  its  prelude  yet. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Miss  PERCY  seemed  to  be  in  no  haste  to  commence  her 
duties  at  the  academy.  Days  passed  and  she  did  not 
make  her  appearance,  and  in  the  mean  time  endless 
rumors  were  afloat  concerning  her.  Her  beauty,  her 
coldness,  her  repelling  haughtiness,  and  her  marvellous 
accomplishments  all  were  fruitful  themes  which,  coupled 
with  her  being  taken  up  by  the  exclusive  and  aristocratic 
Pettibones,  made  her  an  object  of  much  curiosity.  Re- 
garding her  personal  history  and  antecedents  there  was 
nothing  but  unfounded  speculation.  If  questioned  closely 
the  Pettibones  themselves  would  have  had  to  admit  they 
knew  nothing  about  her. 

At  last,  one  morning,  she  made  her  advent  in  the 
chapel  in  time  for  prayers,  Miss  Pettibone  accompanying 
her,  which  was  something,  in  itself,  in  the  way  of  deep- 
ening the  impressions  already  conceived  of  her.  For 
Miss  Pettibone  had  always  held  herself  aloof  from  the 
academy  students,  as  much  as  to  say,  This  country  school 
may  do  for  you,  but  I  patronize  Eastern  institutions.  A 
little  of  her  pride  and  dignity  seemed  reflected  on  Miss 
Percy.  Only  for  a  moment,  however.  Miss  Percy  rose 
above  it,  eclipsed  it  by  her  own  superiority  of  presence, 
and  threw  Miss  Pettibone  quite  into  the  shade.  Mrs. 
Bramen  had  come  in  a  few  moments  before  and  created 
the  customary  sensation,  sweeping  up  to  the  rostrum  with 
her  long  train  and  graceful  wrap  thrown  around  her  shoul- 
ders, compelling  Mr.  Ingraham  by  some  invisible  mag- 
netism to  rise  and  proffer  her  a  chair.  She  was  a  hand- 
some woman  ;  languid,  with  a  creamy  complexion,  smiling 
mouth,  and  large  dreamy  eyes  with  drooping  lids.  Miss 
Belmont  unconsciously  drew  away  from  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  under  all  that  smiling  softness  was  a  cruel 
G* 


'54 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


heart.  When  Miss  Percy  entered,  Mrs.  Bramen's  eye- 
lashes quivered,  and  her  sleepy  eyes  shot  forth  a  wicked 
gleam.  She  was  not  at  the  head  of  her  profession,  as  had 
long  been  patent  to  some  of  the  more  advanced  young 
ladies  who  were  ambitious  to  progress  in  music,  and  she 
was  spitefully  envious  of  those  who  were.  She  accepted 
the  coming  of  a  superior  teacher  as  a  personal  affront. 

Mr.  Ingraham,  on  the  point  of  commencing  the  morn- 
ing exercises,  advanced  to  meet  Miss  Percy,  and  made  a 
place  for  her  and  Miss  Pettibone  in  the  semi-circle  of 
teachers  on  the  rostrum.  She  was  a  slender,  fragile- 
looking  creature,  with  a  perfectly  white,  transparent  face 
and  soft,  shining,  dark  hair.  She  was  elegantly  dressed, 
and  her  garments  seemed  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  the 
plumage  is  a  part  of  the  bird. 

As  soon  as  she  was  seated,  and  looked  abroad  over  the 
scores  of  upraised  faces  with  an  unconsciously  exploring 
gaze,  her  blue-rayed,  starry  eyes  riveted  every  other  eye. 
Yet  she  repelled  quite  as  much  as  she  attracted.  Her 
glance  drew  yours  by  a  cold  fascination,  but  her  lips  had 
an  indescribable  curve  that  seemed  to  scorn  your  admi- 
ration. She  raised  a  singular  conflict  of  feeling ;  she 
appealed  to  all  your  chivalry  and  tenderness,  and  you 
felt  that  you  could  be  a  friend  to  do  and  die  for  her,  if 
need  be,  but  that  she  would  not  accept  your  devotion ; 
that  she  put  you  in  the  attitude  of  an  enemy,  and  it 
seemed  as  if,  against  your  will,  you  were  so.  But  that  if 
some  strong,  inconceivable  power  outside  your  will  com- 
pelled you  to  slay  her, — as  Othello  his  Desdemona, — you 
would  yourself,  like  Othello,  be  the  most  despairing 
mourner.  She  had  the  beauty  of  transparent,  ethereal 
things.  If  a  summer  sky,  deep  blue  with  white  clouds 
in  it,  could  be  also  icy  cold,  Miss  Percy's  effect  upon  you 
would  have  been  the  same.  There  was  a  delicacy  of  finish 
about  her  (as  it  were)  that  gave  you  the  impression  that 
she  was  finely  cultivated,  and  that  the  blood  in  her  veins 
came  purified  through  many  generations  of  high-bred, 
high-toned  ancestry.  She  seemed  costly  and  precious ; 
if  anything  happened  to  her,  if  she  should  be  broken 
from  the  slender  stem  on  which  her  young  life  was  grow- 
ing, it  would  be  as  if  Michael  Angelo's  masterpiece  were 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


155 


destroyed,  or  something  else  equally  rare  were  lost  to  the 
world.  It  would  be  so  great  a  pity. 

She  remained  only  a  short  time  on  this  first  occasion 
of  her  coming  up  to  the  academy.  A  day  or  two  after, 
she  came  before  Mr.  Ingraham's  large  class  in  elocution 
in  the  ladies'  hall,  and  gave  a  reading  previous  to  enter- 
ing on  the  office  of  teacher  in  that  department.  Her 
power  was  something  wonderful  and  impossible  to  de- 
scribe. If  the  description  of  anything  grand  could  equal 
the  thing  itself  we  might  all  be  capable  of  grand  things. 
It  is  the  power  of  genius  to  rise  above  description. 
There  was  nothing  teacher-like  about  her,  no  sympa- 
thetic telegraphy  between  herself  and  her  pupils.  She 
seemed  to  be  cut  off,  in  the  matter  of  sympathy,  from 
all  her  kind.  Yet  she  made  her  art  so  beautiful  and 
attractive  as  to  seem  to  be  the  chief  thing,  and  to  ban- 
ish, for  the  time  being,  all  other  aspirations  but  the  aspira- 
tion to  be  an  accomplished  elocutionist,  able  to  grasp  and 
to  express  the  meanings  of  the  sublimest  thinkers  and 
subtlest  poets. 

"Words,  what  are  they?"  she  said,  in  a  little  lecture 
to  the  class.  "Only  empty  moulds  in  which  to  fashion 
our  thoughts.  The  power,  the  life  of  language  lies  not 
with  him  who  has  written  it,  but  with  us  who  utter  it." 

For  the  hour  in  which  she  read  and  taught  everything 
was  forgotten  by  the  class  except  the  thing  in  hand.  The 
impassioned  spirit  seemed  to  work  a  spell  upon  them  ; 
they  went  out  from  her  presence  dazed  by  her  power  and 
brilliancy,  but  no  nearer  to  her  than  before.  When  she 
turned  away  from  a  recitation  she  was,  as  Miss  Morris 
had  said,  "distant  as  the  North  Pole." 

She  was  discussed  one  evening  at  Mrs.  Woods's.  Miss 
Morris  said,  "The  idea  of  a  music-teacher  wearing  bro- 
caded silks,  and  diamonds,  and  point  lace  !  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  is  a  teacher  at  all;  I  believe  she  is  playing  a 
part." 

"What  part  could  she  possibly  play  in  this  obscure 
Western  village?"  said  Miss  Raymond. 

"  One  can't  tell  that.  But  mark  my  words,  and  see  if 
it  doesn't  turn  out  that  she  is  masquerading  here  for  her 
own  amusement  or  somebody's  displeasure." 


156  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"I'll  bet,"  said  Miss  Allen,  who  could  not  eradicate 
certain  rough  adornments  from  her  dialect,  "  that  she 
has  been  an  heiress  and  has  lost  her  fortune." 

"Romantic,"  said  Miss  Morris. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  Miss  Belmont's  opinion  about 
her,"  said  Miss  Raymond.  "I  wonder  if  she  doesn't 
know  something  of  her  history.  It  seems  to  me,  always, 
that  she  looks  at  her  in  a  kind  of  compassionate  way." 

"  Compassionate  !"  sneered  Miss  Morris,  with  a  laugh. 
"The  elegant  and  aristocratic  Percy  snubs  the  precep- 
tress." 

"That  would  make  no  difference  with  Miss  Belmont," 
said  Miss  Raymond. 

"  Why  not  ?  You  must  think  Miss  Belmont  very 
saintly." 

"  She  is  too  great-minded  to  be  biased  in  her  estimate 
of  people  by  their  opinion  of  her." 

"Ah  !  what  a  sublime  philosopher." 

"You  might  well  call  her  a  sublime  philosopher,  with- 
out any  of  your  sweet  irony,  Matilda,"  said  Miss  Ray- 
mond, warmly. 

Whether  Miss  Percy  accounted  it  a  misfortune  or  not, 
she  made  many  and  bitter  enemies.  Miss  Allen  went  to 
her  to  take  music-lessons,  but  showed  herself  to  be  so  dull 
and  backward,  that  she  was  dismissed  with  the  indignant 
outburst,  "I  am  not  here  to  teach  beginners;  go  to  Mrs. 
Bramen." 

Red  with  mortification  and  anger,  Miss  Allen  went, 
and  Mrs.  Bramen,  in  her  turn,  waxed  wroth  and  set  her 
white  teeth  and  bit  her  smiling  lips  at  the  implied  depre- 
ciation of  herself. 

Miss  Percy  herself  had  risen  so  far  above  the  mechan- 
ical as  to  have  almost  forgotten  the  laws  governing  her 
two  beautiful  accomplishments,  making  her  perception 
seem  intuition  and  her  power  supernatural.  Nothing 
could  equal  her  impatience  when  a  pupil  seemed  to  be 
laboring  under  the  law.  "  I  want  you  to  work  by  rule, 
of  course,"  she  said;  "but  above  all  things,  don't  let 
the  rule  appear  in  sight.  One's  greatest  endeavor  should 
be  to  cover  up  these  geometrical  lines  and  angles,  as 
nature  does  in  all  her  beautiful  works.  Think  of  it ! 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  5  7 

Men  have  been  for  centuries  trying  to  ferret  out  her  laws; 
but  so  intricate  are  they,  and  so  gracefully  intertwined, 
as  to  be,  most  of  them,  past  finding  out.  Mathematics 
enters  into  music  and  poetry  as  well  as  into  the  universe, 
but  only  as  a  skeleton  to  be  elaborately  draped." 

She  never  placed  herself  beside  the  pupil  at  the  piano, 
but  walked  restlessly  about  the  room  possessed  of  a  spirit 
laboring  intensely  and  suffering — so  it  seemed — acutely, 
until  the  pupil  had  risen  out  of  the  physical  or  mechan- 
ical into  the  spiritual.  Then  she  would  throw  off  the 
violent  effort  with  which  she  constrained  (as  it  were)  the 
pupil, — as  the  clairvoyant  throws  off  the  spell  he  has 
labored  under,; — and  her  spirituelle  face  would  become 
almost  transfigured.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  crea- 
ture more  impassioned  and  yet  so  cold.  She  seemed  sus- 
picious of  everybody,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Ingraham,  in 
whom  she  placed  a  shy,  childlike  confidence.  Miss  Bel- 
mont  had  tried  to  approach  her,  feeling  sure  there  was 
some  trouble  clouding  her  young  life,  and  anxious  to 
show  her  there  was  yet  some  tenderness  in  the  great 
world  she  looked  on  with  so  much  dislike  and  fear  \  but 
Miss  Percy  repelled  her.  She  was  skeptical  as  a  child 
who  has  been  once  deceived,  and  could  not  bring  herself 
to  believe  the  preceptress's  goodness  genuine.  Besides, 
though  so  delicate,  fragile,  and  alone,  and  apparently 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  world,  she  had  an  independent 
and  proud  spirit  that  would  not  brook  compassion. 

One  evening,  Wilma  and  Miss  Raymond,  delaying  a 
moment  in  the  chapel  after  school,  came  down-stairs  and 
heard  Miss  Percy  singing  in  the  ladies'  hall.  They 
stopped  outside  the  door  and  listened.  Wilma  had  never 
heard  anything  to  be  compared  with  it.  She  would  not 
have  thought  it  possible  for  a  human  voice,  controlled  and 
swayed  by  a  human  spirit,  to  so  rise,  and  swell,  and  trem- 
ble, and  float,  and  die  away,  carrying  one's  very  soul  with 
it.  Yet  it  seemed  like  the  answer,  the  fulfilment  of  some 
vague,  wild  dream  or  longing,  making  her  wonder,  when 
she  thought  of  it  again,  if  there  is  not  in  the  vast  uni- 
verse a  response  to  all  our  questionings  ;  or  whether  there 
is  something  yet  farther  beyond  toward  which  each  new 
and  wonderful  experience  is  but  a  step.  Who  can  measure 


!  5  8  HIGH-  WA^  TER-MARK. 

a  soul,  since  with  every  expansion  comes  the  power  of 
still  greater  enlargement? 

By  and  by,  Miss  Belmont  came  out,  closing  the  door 
softly.  "I  have  been  in  paradise,"  she  said,  smiling, 
with  wet  eyes. 

"And  we  have  been  just  outside  the  gates,"  Miss  Ray- 
mond answered,  wittily.  "  She  sings  exquisitely,  doesn't 
she?" 

"Exquisitely,"  repeated  Miss  Belmont. 

Wilma  felt  that  she  could  not  have  ventured  to  make 
any  comment  upon  what  had  so  far  transcended  any  pre- 
vious experience  or  conception.  Comment  was  common- 
place; it  seemed  to  bring  down  the  wonderful  and  ideal 
to  plain  matter  of  fact,  and  to  measure  it  by  the  common 
standards.  Wilma  had  a  fine  sense  that  could  have  un- 
derstood and  appreciated  Miss  Percy's  curl  of  the  lip, 
when  she  heard  either  words  of  praise  or  criticism  on  her 
wonderful  powers.  Surely  nothing  can  equal  the  fine 
scorn  of  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  conscious  greatness, 
pecked  at  or  patronized  by  inferior  critics  and  commen- 
tators. 

"  Miss  Belmont,  tell  us  what  you  think  of  Miss  Percy," 
said  Miss  Raymond. 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  "she  is  far  too  delicate 
to  be  knocked  about  the  world.  She  ought  to  belong  to 
some  one  who  would  keep  her  tenderly  and  not  let  the 
winds  buffet  her  roughly.  She  certainly  has  been,  she 
must  have  been,  carefully  shielded  all  her  life  until  now. 
Some  strange  freak  of  fortune  evidently  has  set  her 
adrift." 

Just  then  Miss  Percy  opened  the  door  and  came  out. 
She  glanced  coldly  from  one  to  another,  bowed  to  Miss 
Belmont,  and  then  turned  to  Wilma,  who  was  standing  a 
little  apart.  "Will  you  come  with  me,  Miss  Lynne?  I 
believe  you  go  my  way,"  she  said,  in  her  abrupt  manner. 

Wilma,  taken  by  surprise,  complied.  She  had  fre- 
quently met  Miss  Percy's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  their 
half- vague,  wondering  expression,  but  she  had  never  di- 
rectly addressed  her  a  word  before.  Indeed,  it  was  the 
first  advance  she  had  made  toward  any  one  in  the  acad- 
emy. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


'59 


When  they  reached  the  gate  leading  out  into  the  street 
Miss  Percy  stopped  and  said,  "  Suppose  we  go  into  the 
woods,  Miss  Lynne?  The  ground  is  dry  and  it  is  not 
cold  to-day." 

Wilma  would  hardly  have  had  the  power  to  refuse  any- 
thing she  might  have  asked. 

They  turned  off  up  the  street  toward  a  thick  wood  that 
lay  along  the  edge  of  the  town  at  the  foot  of  the  hills 
and  partly  covering  them.  Miss  Percy  walked  fast  and 
Wilma  kept  silently  beside  her,  with  a  feeling  that  her 
companion  might  almost  be  a  creature  of  some  other 
world,  so  detached  she  seemed  from  all  the  interests  and 
busy,  practical  concerns  of  this  earth. 

"I  have  brought  a  book  with  me,  Miss  Lynne,"  she 
said,  when  they  had  reached  the  wood  and  penetrated 
some  distance  into  it.  "And  if  you  care  to  hear  me 
we  will  sit  down  on  a  log  somewhere  here,  and  I  will  read 
aloud." 

Wilma  said  she  would  like  it  above  all  things. 

"  Yonder  is  a  log  for  you,  then,"  said  Miss  Percy,  stop- 
ping and  glancing  around.  "And  here  is  a  stump  for 
me.  We  shall  be  a  little  way  apart,  which  is  better." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  low,  mossy  stump,  a  tree 
near  by  throwing  out  a  crooked  limb  for  her  to  lean 
against,  and  drew  a  small  volume  from  among  the  heavy 
folds  of  her  dress  and  opened  it. 

"If  you  get  tired  presently,  you  can  get  up  and  walk 
away,"  she  said.  "I  sometimes  lose  myself  in  reading. 
But  don't  go  off  and  leave  me  ;  I  should  be  frightened 
to  be  left  alone  in  the  woods." 

"  I  shall  not  get  tired,"  Wilma  said. 

The  volume  was  Longfellow,  and  she  read  extracts  from 
the  Golden  Legend,  principally  Lucifer's  monologues, 
and  finally  the  story  of  Irmingard,  as  related  to  Elsie  by 
the  abbess  herself.  Wilmingard  held  her  breath  when 
she  came  to  the  dreadful  pursuit : 

"  How  I  remember  that  breathless  flight 
Across  the  moors  in  the  summer  night ! 
How,  under  our  feet  the  long,  white  road 
Backward  like  a  river  flowed, 
Sweeping  with  it  fences  and  hedges, 


1 60  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Whilst  farther  away,  and  overhead, 
Paler  than  I,  with  fear  and  dread, 
The  moon  fled  with  us,  as  we  fled 
Along  the  forest's  jagged  edges  !" 

Miss  Percy's  patience  gave  out  before  she  had  finished 
the  recital.  Reading  the  lines, — 

"  But  the  same  passion  I  had  given 
To  earth  before,  now  turned  to  heaven 
With  all  its  overflowing  fulness," 

she  closed  the  book  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  To  think  of  healing  a  wounded  heart  in  the  solitude 
of  a  convent  I" 

"  I  would  rather  than  almost  anything  else  in  the  world 
be  able  to  read  like  that,"  said  Wilma,  in  a  low  voice. 

Miss  Percy  had  almost  lost  consciousness  of  her  already. 
She  looked  up. 

"Would  you?  Well,  you  may;  it  is  not  a  very  dif- 
ficult accomplishment.  There  is  one  requisite,  however." 

"What?"  Wilma  asked. 

"  You  must  have  all  these  things  burned  into  your  soul 
by  the  cruel  iron  of  experience.  You  must  taste  joy 
first,  unalloyed,  pure  joy  (I  think  it  always  comes  first), 
and  then  you  must  be  racked  and  tortured,  and  made  to 
feel  with  the  sharpness  of  actual  pain  all  there  is  in  your 
nature  to  feel  of  suffering.  We  know  nothing  of  what  it 
is  to  be  wounded,  to  be  hurt,  until  the  real  shock  of  a 
blow  is  felt  by  our  own  self.  Would  you  like  the  experi- 
ence for  the  sake  of  what  it  would  bring?"  she  asked, 
mockingly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Wilma,  recoiling.  "It  seems 
to  me,"  she  added,  "  that  I  should  be  willing  to  suffer  a 
good  deal  if  I  might  so  come  into  the  deeper  meanings 
of  things." 

Miss  Percy  shrugged  her  shoulders,  which  gesture  seemed 
to  say,  eloquently,  "How  ignorant  you  are;  you  don't 
know  what  you  say." 

Ignorant  and  romantic.  She  had  studied  so  many 
great  faces  in  the  Shermans'  little  cottage  at  home,  and 
they  all  had  the  lines  of  suffering  upon  them,  and  that 
halo  of  refinement  and  intelligence  born  of  suffering  and 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  6 1 

the  wide  knowledge  of  experience,  that  she  had  come  to 
think  the  enlightenment  and  perfect  awakening  of  the  soul 
worth  any  price  within  the  power  of  this  poor  earth-life 
to  pay.  There  have  been  people,  she  thought,  who  have 
borne  all  that  could  be  borne, — for  there  must  be  limits  to 
suffering, — and  could  not  I  ?  She  had  something  of  Fred's 
stoicism.  It  might  be  that  the  greatest  strength  of  both 
lay  in  their  ignorance  of  what  suffering  really  was.  She 
had  never  tried  to  picture  to  herself  a  possible  affliction. 
The  sorrows  of  others  which  she  had  read  about  all  had 
the  coloring  of  romance  and  the  softening  effects  of  dis- 
tance. Looking  through  the  telescope  of  a  hundred  years 
at  things  that  have  been, — at  combinations  of  circumstance 
surrounding  a  particular  object  brought  out  into  bold  re- 
lief, all  other  things  being  cut  away  or  pressed  into  a 
sombre  background, — what  life  but  has  had  its  poetry, 
its  passion,  its  tragedy?  Alas!  that  affliction  in  its  day 
should  be  so  real  and  unromantic. 

"  Come,"  said  Miss  Percy,  rising.  "  We  will  go  now. 
Would  you  like,"  she  asked,  as  they  neared  Mrs.  Woods's, 
"to  come  to  my  room  sometimes?  I  will  send  for  you 
now  and  then,  if  you  care  to  come." 

She  appeared  to  be  afraid  of  seeming  to  ask  or  want  a 
favor. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Wilma,  gladly. 

She  went  on  down  the  street,  and  Wilma  crossed  over 
to  the  gate.  Miss  Raymond  spread  the  door  open  and 
exclaimed,  gayly,  "Come  in,  my  distinguished  young 
friend  !  We  are  dying  to  hear  all  about  it ;  how  did  you 
get  so  intimate  with  her,  you  sly  little  thing?" 

"I  am  not  intimate  with  her,"  said  Wilma.  "She 
never  spoke  to  me  until  to-day." 

"  Did  she  not  ?  Well,  I'm  sure  she  made  a  pretty  bold 
advance  upon  you.  Where  did  you  go?" 

"Off  into  the  woods.     She  read  Longfellow  to  me." 

"Oh,  girls!  do  you  hear?"  said  Miss  Raymond. 
"Wilma  is  getting  ahead  of  us  all,  she  is  taking  private 
lessons  in  elocution." 

"No  doubt  she  will  profit  by  her  opportunities,"  said 
Miss  Morris,  scornfully. 

Wilma's  next  letter  to  her  lover  was  full  of  the  strange 
14* 


!  6  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

music-teacher.  Charley,  when  he  read  it,  rumpled  his 
curls,  and  got  up  and  fumed  a  little.  "  Those  people  are 
turning  her  foolish  little  heart,"  said  he.  "What  do  I 
care  about  her  Miss  Percys  and  her  Miss  Raymonds  !  I 
must  tell  her  I  want  to  hear  more  about  herself,  and  not 
so  much  about  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry."  But  he  recov- 
ered himself  soon,  and  sat  down  and  took  up  his  pen. 
"  It  is  natural  for  her  to  be  carried  off  her  feet  a  little  at 
first,"  he  reflected.  "The  current  is  pretty  strong  up 
there,  I  warrant,  for  a  little  thing  who  has  seen  nothing 
of  the  world  but  a  bird's-eye  view  from  the  top  of  Little 
Twin  !  After  all,"  he  added,  with  his  expansive  smile, 
"so  long  as  her  friends  are  all  of  the  feminine  gender,  I 
don't  know  as  I  have  any  reason  to  grumble."  So  he 
wrote  a  long,  and  kind,  and  tender  letter  as  usual,  and  only 
remembered  to  add  at  the  end  of  it,  "  Don't  let  your  new 
friends  quite  eclipse  the  old  ones,  Wilma  darling." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

SOME  time  after  this  Wilma  wrote  Mr.  Burns  an  un- 
usually elaborate  letter.  "I  must  tell  you,"  she  said, 
"more  about  my  dear  Miss  Percy;  for,  though  I  don't 
seem  to  know  her  any  better,  I  love  her  more,  and  feel 
more  and  more  sorry  for  her.  Is  it  not  strange,  Charley, 
that  she  should  take  to  me  of  all  the  students?  I  think 
it  is  because  I  am  so  little  and  unimportant,  and  so  de- 
tached as  it  were  from  all  the  others.  I  often  go  with  her 
into  the  woods,  and  sometimes  up  to  her  room,  at  Mrs. 
Pettibone's.  She  reads  to  me  a  great  deal,  and  from 
many  books  I  never  saw  before.  She  says  books  are  our 
magnifying  glasses  through  which  we  may  see  people  and 
things  much  clearer  than  with  our  own  unaided  under- 
standing, because  they  reflect  so  accurately  and  interpret 
so  truly.  I  happened  to  speak  of  this  to  Miss  Belmont 
one  day  and  she  seemed  alarmed,  and  said,  '  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  wholly  educated  by  books,  my  dear ;  keep 
your  eyes  open  and  make  use  of  your  own  faculties  instead 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  63 

of  leaning  wholly  upon  others,  even  the  best  and  greatest.' 
That  same  evening  she  took  me  with  her  to  the  cottage  of 
a  poor  family  whose  little  daughter  was  dead.  We  went 
into  a  poor,  plain  room  where,  stretched  upon  a  board 
supported  by  two  old  chairs,  lay  the  sweet,  wax-like  figure. 
The  mother  silent,  but  oh  !  so  broken-hearted,  came  for- 
ward to  receive  us  in  a  dumb,  anguished  way  ;  a  crippled 
boy  with  the  saddest  face  I  ever  saw  sat  near  the  window 
with  his  crutch  beside  him.  The  father  came  in,  big  and 
broad-shouldered  and  awkward,  but  made  dignified  by  his 
great  sorrow.  Oh,  it  was  heart-rending  !  I  sobbed  aloud. 
When  we  came  out  Miss  Belmont  said,  '  Do  you  not  find 
here,  my  dear,  a  reality  of  sorrow  greater  than  in  the  story 
even  of  Dickens's  Little  Nell?'  I  saw  then  why  she  had 
taken  me  there.  '  Great  writers,'  she  said,  'can  better 
express  what  you  feel  than  you  could  express  it.  But 
don't  depend  upon  them  to  tell  you  what  you  may  see 
with  your  own  eyes.  There  is  danger  of  cultivating  false 
sentiment  by  dwelling  too  much  on  imaginary  pictures  of 
life.  Many  people  weep  over  fictitious  stories  of  wrong 
and  suffering  who  never  see  the  actual  tragedies  going  on 
under  their  very  eyes.  More  than  that,  I  have  known 
people  to  hug  a  volume  of  descriptive  poetry  to  their 
hearts,  and  delight  in  it,  and  bury  themselves  in  it,  who 
never  look  up  to  admire  the  real  beauties  of  earth  and  sky 
around  them.  Be  sure  that  you  are  living  all  the  time, 
my  child,  and  not  dreaming.'  I  know  nothing  about 
Miss  Percy's  friends  or  her  past  history ;  but  people  must 
have  been  very  cruel  to  her  some  time  or  she  could  not 
say,  as  she  often  does,  that  she  has  no  faith  in  human 
nature,  or  belief  in  any  human  creature.  When  she.  talks 
so  I  cannot  keep  silent  and  let  it  seem  as  if  I  think  so 
too,  and  so  I  tell  her  about  my  dear  friends,  and  espe- 
cially about  my  dear  Charley.  (I  don't  know  how  I  first 
came  to  speak  of  you  to  her ;  I  never  have  to  any  one  else, 
not  even  Miss  Raymond.)  And  she  listens  to  me,  and  smiles 
and  shakes  her  head  as  if  it  were  a  fancy  your  loving  me 
and  my  believing  that  you  do.  She  says  we  deceive  our- 
selves in  such  matters  as  well  as  each  other.  Yesterday 
evening,  after  school,  Miss  Belmont  asked  me  to  stop  in 
her  room  a  moment.  There  was  a  letter  lying  on  her  desk 


T  64  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

with  an  Eastern  postmark.  She  said  it  came  from  a  cler- 
gyman, and  was  in  reference  to  Miss  Percy.  It  stated 
that  Miss  Percy  had  suffered  a  grievous  wrong, — he  was 
not  at  liberty  to  explain  the  nature  of  it, — and  that  it  had 
shocked  her  moral  nature  and  almost  overthrown  her 
reason  ;  that  she  was  a  great  sufferer  both  bodily  and  men- 
tally, and  that  the  greatest  good  that  could  be  done  her 
would  be  to  convince  her  of  the  love  and  goodness  there 
is  in  human  nature  by  being  a  friend  and  helper  to  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  Miss  Belmont  said,  when  she  had  ex- 
plained it  to  me,  'I  have  no  way  of  helping  her,  my 
dear,  but  through  you ;  Miss  Percy  allows  no  one  else  to 
come  near  her.  I  only  want  to  encourage  your  friendship 
for  her ;  you  may  do  her  much  good.  Not  that  I  wish 
you,  my  child,  to  feel  burdened  by  any  great  responsi- 
bility about  her, — you  are  too  young  for  that.  But  by 
being  very  tender  and  kind  to  her,  and  showing  her  in 
many  little  ways  that  you  love  her,  which  I  think  you  do, 
Wilma?'  I  said  I  did,  dearly.  Then  she  went  on  to 
say  that  there  was  one  thing  more,  which  was  that  I  must 
not  allow  any  thing  Miss  Percy  did  or  said  to  poison  my 
mind  and  make  me  doubtful  of  the  goodness  of  my  fellow- 
beings  ;  but  that  I  should  keep  in  mind  always  that  there 
are  such  things  in  men  and  women  as  truth  and  honor  and 
love.  She  said  she  could  not  conceive  of  a  greater  calam- 
ity happening  to  people  than  the  having  their  faith  shaken 
in  these  things,  and  that  it  often  came  about  from  our 
being  disappointed  in  people  and  not  finding  them  to  be 
what  we  took  them  to  be.  She  said  we  should  never  go 
so  far  in  our  worship  of  an  individual — seeing  that  man- 
kind is  human  and  fallible — as  that  we  cannot  separate 
him  in  our  judgment  from  an  infallible  principle, — like 
truth, — fearing  that  if  we  are  deceived  in  him  we  will  cry 
'there  is  no  truth.'  That  we  should  accustom  ourselves 
to  contemplate  great  principles  and  make  them  our  stand- 
ards of  judgment,  so  fixed  in  our  understanding  that  if 
the  whole  world  were  to  fall  away  from  them,  they  would 
still  be  our  strength  and  support.  '  In  a  word,'  she  said, 
'we  must  not  confound  frail  humanity  with  Divinity,  nor 
our  imperfect  theories  with  the  grand  abstract  principles 
of  virtue.'  After  this  we  walked  down  street  together, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  !  65 

and  she  spoke  of  the  frost  that  had  hung  on  the  trees  all 
day,  and  told  me  to  look  far  down  the  street  to  where  the 
two  sidewalks  with  their  two  rows  of  trees  came  together. 
It  looked  like  a  grand  hall  in  a  crystal  palace.  The 
sleighing  is  very  fine  now,  and  Miss  Maclvers  is  going  to 
have  a  ride  with  one  of  the  higher  department  young  men. 
I  wish  you  could  see  her ;  she  has  just  come  down-stairs 
in  her  beautiful  velvets  and  furs,  and  Miss  Raymond  calls 
her  the  princess.  There  !  the  bells  are  jingling  now,  and 
Miss  Raymond  says,  '  Come,  quick,  VVilma,  let  us  take  a 
peep  through  the  blinds.'  " 

The  day  following  a  messenger  came  for  Wilma  to  go 
to  Miss  Percy's  room.  She  was  well  enough  acquainted 
with  the  Pettibone  house  by  this  time  to  pilot  herself  up- 
stairs, and,  when  the  servant  let  her  in  below,  she  ran  up 
and  knocked  at  Miss  Percy's  door  and  entered.  The  bed, 
draped  in  white,  was  drawn  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  Miss  Percy,  also  white,  with  the  delicate  blue 
veins  outlined  upon  her  temples,  lay  upon  it  with  her 
eyes  closed  and  the  long  dark  lashes  sweeping  her  cheeks. 
Wilma  had  never  seen  her  so  before,  and  approached  the 
bed  surprised  and  alarmed.  Miss  Percy  opened  her  eyes 
and  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hand  feebly.  It  was  a  mere 
baby  hand,  transparent  and  perfect,  and  glittering  with  a 
heavily-jewelled  ring.  Wilma  took  it  tenderly.  "  Dear 
Miss  Percy,  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  sick." 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  Miss  Percy  returned;  "I  am 
always  an  invalid  more  or  less,"  and  withdrew  her  hand 
a  little  impatiently. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  Wilma  begged. 

"  Yes,  you  can  read  to  me ;  that  is  why  I  sent  for  you. 
My  eyes  are  too  weak  for  me  to  read  much,  and  I  can't 
lie  here  and  think  ;  it  would  kill  me.  Raise  me  up  a  little, 
please,  and  put  that  other  pillow  under  my  head.  Thank 
you." 

There  were  some  elegantly-bound  books  on  the  table. 
She  pointed  to  them.  "Bring  the  one  in  purple,  and 
come  and  sit  by  the  bedside,"  she  said. 

Wilma  did  as  she  bade  her. 

"Open  where  the  mark  is,"  she  languidly  directed. 

Wilma  opened  at  "  Childe  Harold."    After  a  time  Miss 


1 66  HIGH-  WA  TER- MA  RK. 

Percy  opened  her  eyes  and  became  interested  in  watching 
Wilma's  face.  Soon  she  put  out  her  hand  and  stopped 
the  reading. 

"Close  your  eyes  a  moment,  dear;  how  prettily  your 
eyelashes  curl  up  !  Did  you  ever  think  you  were  pretty, 
Wilma?" 

"  No,"  said  Wilma,  blushing  a  little  ;  "  I  am  too  dark." 

"  Humph  !  there  are  handsome  dark  people  as  well 
as  handsome  fair  ones,"  said  Miss  Percy.  "You  are 
different  from  most  people,  child ;  you  are  more  beautiful 
than  your  mirror  tells  you.  Your  finest  expressions  are 
not  photographed  on  a  looking-glass.  There,  read  on." 

She  closed  her  eyes  wearily  again,  and  Wilma  resumed. 
Often  Miss  Percy  interrupted  her,  and  made  her  read  a 
line  or  a  stanza  over  again.  Sometimes  she  repeated  whole 
stanzas  herself,  and  they  seemed  to  throw  her  into  a  state 
of  such  wild  excitement,  that  at  last  Wilma  felt  that  the 
reading  was  at  an  end  and  closed  the  book. 

Miss  Percy  seemed  to  feel  no  responsibility  about 
Wilma;  no  fear  as  regarded  her  youth  and  susceptibility 
that  the  influence  of  her  unhappy  views  of  life  and  people 
might  be  hurtful  to  her.  Nor  was  it.  Wilma's  anchor  of 
faith  was  in  her  lover,  and  grappled  her  to  the  best  side 
of  human  nature  and  to  a  firm  belief  in  it.  Notwith- 
standing Miss  Belmont's  injunctions,  which,  without  her 
knowing  it,  bore  so  directly  upon  Wilma's  own  life,  she 
could  not  separate  her  lover  from  all  things  good  and 
true.  He  was  boundless  and  infinite  to  her.  She  saw 
nothing  beyond  him.  She  saw  everything  through  him. 

Miss  Percy  bewailed  bitterly  her  lost  happiness.  And 
Wilma  asked,  timidly,  "  Dear  Miss  Percy,  is  not  happiness 
in  us?" 

Poor  Wilma  !  She  had  learned  the  forms  of  speech 
which  we  all  use  upon  occasion,  but  she  had  not  grown 
into  the  meanings  of  them,  and  could  scarcely  match  her 
trite  little  sayings  (though  there  did  begin  to  bud  a  cer- 
tain truth  in  them  to  her  alert  understanding)  against  Miss 
Percy's  bitter  experiences. 

"  Happiness  in  us  !"  said  Miss  Percy,  scornfully.  "  It 
is  the  misfortune  of  some  of  us  to  find  that  it  is  in  things 
as  hollow  as  empty  tombs." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 6  7 

"What  things?"  Wilma  asked. 

"Well,  say  friendship,—  love  /" 

Wilma  had  so  often  tried  to  prove  that  there  was  truth 
in  those  things,  and  failed,  that  she  was  driven  to  a  dif- 
ferent stand. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  you  wouldn't  think  it  right  to  put 
one's  whole  happiness  and  one's  whole  life  in  those 
things,  dear  Miss  Percy?  I  mean  that  it  is  not  best,  is  it, 
to  depend  so  much  upon  people,  or  upon  anything  outside 
of  us,  as  to  make  us  either  happy  or  miserable?" 

"  What  else  in  this  world  have  we  got  to  depend  upon, 
child?  You  don't  know  what  you  say.  Wait  until  all 
your  props  are  taken  away,  and  see  if  you  have  innate 
strength  enough  to  stand  alone  !  Heavens,  how  easy  it  is 
to  talk  !  There  are  certain  grand  virtues  attributed  to  man- 
kind, and  we  are  apt  to  think  we  see  them  in  our  friends. 
But  when  one  after  another  proves  false  and  empty,  can- 
not you  see  what  a  wreck  it  makes  of  our  faith  ?  So  long 
as  people  don't  sin  against  us,  we  can't  see  that  they  sin 
against  anything.  If  the  devil  smiles  on  us,  we  smile  on 
him,  though  we  know  he  has  just  slain  our  brother;  but 
let  him  turn  against  us,  and  how  we  rise  up  in  our  wrath  ! 
A  fault  in  friendship  or  in  love  is  the  most  grievous  of  all 
faults ;  we  can  stand  anything  better  than  that.  How 
often  you  hear  a  man  say,  self-congratulatorily,  of  some 
known  villain,  'Well,  he  never  harmed  me  !'  As  though 
we  have  each  got  to  fight  our  own  battles  against  our  per- 
sonal foes  alone,  and  not  make  common  cause  with  each 
other  in  fighting  evil.  Bah  !  I  am  sick  of  the  selfishness 
of  human  nature  that  stands  aloof  with  its  arms  folded 
looking  on  while  its  fellow-beings  are  torturing  and  kill- 
ing one  another.  I  hate  the  calm  looker-on  in  the  world's 
fierce  battles ;  I  am  glad  when  he  gets  a  blow  !  It  is 
amusing  to  see  him  arouse  himself  to  a  sense  of  the  hor- 
rible situation  when  he  himself  is  the  victim  !" 

"But  all  people  are  not  false  and  selfish  and  cruel," 
said  Wilma,  determinedly,  and  yet  in  the  gentlest  man- 
ner. She  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her,  in  view  of  many 
true-hearted  friends  in  whom  her  faith  was  firm,  to  defend 
the  better  side. 

"  Human  nature  is  just  human  nature,"  said  Miss  Percy. 


j68  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"  It  is  the  stuff  we  are  all  made  of.  If  only  one  person 
were  false  in  a  hundred,  it  would  prove  the  possibility  of 
all  becoming  so  under  various  temptations." 

Wilma  returned  quickly,  that  if  one  friend  were  true 
under  all  circumstances,  was  there  not  an  equal  likelihood 
that  all  might  have  the  element  of  truth? 

"No,"  said  Miss  Percy,  sadly.  "We  start  out  with 
the  supposition  that  all  are  true.  My  faith  was  once  just 
as  blind  and  persistent  as  yours,  Wilma.  Oh,  child  !  our 
happiest  days  are  those  in  which  we  lean  upon  our  friends. 
To  be  freed  from  a  higher  power  that  guided  and  directed 
us  brings  a  responsibility  worse  than  slavery.  It  is  terri- 
ble to  feel  you  have  no  arm  stronger  than  your  own  to  lean 
upon." 

She  grasped  Wilma's  hand  suddenly  and  held  it,  as  if 
in  her  weakness  she  felt  the  need  of  something  strong  to 
cling  to.  As  if,  too,  she  recognized  strength  in  Wilma. 
She  shut  her  eyes  to  keep  back  the  tears  springing  into 
them,  and  her  slight  frame  shook.  But  in  a  moment  she 
controlled  herself  and  looked  up.  No  eyes  could  show 
more  fulness  of  interest  and  sympathy  than  Wilma's. 

"You  are  a  faithful  little  creature,  Wilma,"  she  said, 
in  softer  tones.  "  Not  simply  faithful  to  me,  but  to  better 
things  than  I,  and  faithful  to  them  in  spite  of  me.  Even 
when  you  do  not  speak,  when  I  hush  you  up  by  my  vio- 
lence, there  is  a  something  in  you  looking  out  of  your 
eyes  that  steadily  opposes  me  and  disproves  my  miserable 
theories.  What  is  it,  Wilma?  Is  it  faith  in  your  lover? 
Oh,  take  heed  to  it,  my  child,  and  do  not  build  your 
beautiful  young  life  on  the  foundation  of  any  man's 
truth  and  honor !  The  world  is  full  of  stronger  things 
than  love.  When  I  was  a  little  child  I  was  left,  an  or- 
phan, to  tne  guardianship  of  an  uncle,  who  had  charge 
of  a  large  fortune  for  me.  Through  all  the  years  we  lived 
together  I  idolized  him.  But  my  idolatry  was  destined 
to  end  in  hate  and  loathing.  I  was  obliged  to  fly  from 
him  as  from  my  worst  foe  :  my  fortune  squandered,  I 
friendless,  alone,  a  fugitive.  Can  you  understand  a  grief 
like  that?  No  !  there  is  only  one  way  to  learn  what  mis- 
ery is,  and  that  is  to  feel  it.  But  I Oh,  God  !  I  have 

suffered  even  greater  wrongs  than  that." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 69 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  sobbing  bitterly. 
Wilma,  deeply  moved,  knelt  by  the  bedside. 

"  Dear  Miss  Percy,  don't  be  so  unhappy,  don't  grieve 
so.  Do  you  not  look  up  to  God  and  heaven  ?  If  this 
life  is  all  spoiled  for  you,  why,  is  there  not  another  and 
far  better  life  to  look  forward  to?" 

"Another  life!"  exclaimed  Miss  Percy,  and  caught  up 
the  book  which  Wilma  had  dropped,  and  read  with  terrible 
force  and  clearness, — 

"  Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing  !  to  know 
Thou  art  ?     Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given 
That  being  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  regions,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  ?" 

Throwing  the  book  from  her,  she  sank  back  upon  the 
pillows  utterly  exhausted.  Her  eyelids  dropped,  and  she 
lay  still  and  white  as  marble.  Wilma,  alarmed,  caught 
up  a  fan  that  lay  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  began  fan- 
ning her.  After  a  little  she  revived  and  looked  up. 

"There,  kiss  me,  Wilma,  and  go.  I  am  tired.  I  am 
going  to  sleep." 

Wilma  touched  the  white  forehead,  with  its  little  ring- 
lets of  dark  hair  lying  damp  upon  it,  with  her  lips,  and 
then  went  softly  out  with  a  heavy  heart,  whose  burden 
she  could  not  shake  off.  She  was  one  of  those  whom  other 
people's  griefs  lay  hold  of  with  a  vital  grasp.  In  all  Miss 
Percy's  horizon  she  saw  no  light ;  and  only  in  a  lesser 
degree  she  carried  Miss  Percy's  weary  load  and  felt  no 
hope. 

Passing  up  the  street  on  her  way  home  she  met  Miss 
Belmont  at  a  street  corner,  and  they  walked  together  as 
far  as  Mr.  Ingraham's  gate.  Miss  Belmont  had  a  whole- 
some mind  that  was  wonderfully  reassuring  when  one  felt 
inclined  to  lean  toward  the  gloomy  side  of  life  and  to 
doubt  the  goodness  of  human  nature.  Not  that  Wilma 
doubted  the  goodness  of  any  human  nature  with  which 
she  was  connected  ;  none  of  the  shafts  Miss  Percy  threw 
touched  her  idols.  But  they  must  strike  somewhere,  and 
they  struck  the  vague,  remote  world  which  took  shape  as 

H  IS 


1 70  HIGH-  WA 1ER-MARK. 

a  cruel  monster  to  Wilma,  just  as  it  does  to  all  of  us  when 
we  separate  ourselves  from  it  and  look  at  it  in  the  cold 
distance.  When  we  go  near  to  it,  into  it,  and  make  our- 
self  a  part  of  it,  and  learn  to  judge  it  leniently,  charitably, 
its  monstrosity  wears  away,  and  the  great,  busy,  bustling, 
wicked,  prowling,  designing  world  is  our  brother  and  our 
sister,  with  a  heart  like  us,  and  affections  and  passions, 
and  wounds  and  suffering  and  disappointments. 

"  Well,  how  did  you  find  your  friend,  Miss  Percy,  my 
dear?"  asked  Miss  Belmont.  "  I  suppose  you  have  just 
come  from  there?" 

"Yes.     I  found  her  miserable,"  said  Wilma. 

"In  health,  or  in  spirits?" 

"Both." 

"The  one  follows  the  other,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Bel- 
mont. "  I  believe  if  Miss  Percy  were  stronger  physically 
she  might  rise  above  her  mental  troubles.  But  then,  to 
reverse  it,  if  she  were  stronger  mentally  she  would  not, 
perhaps,  be  so  broken  in  health  ;  her  mind  preys  upon  her 
body.  I  am  sorry  she  takes  such  morbid  views  of  man- 
kind. She  accuses  people  of  systematic  and  designing 
cruelty,  whereas  their  culpability  lies  chiefly  in  being 
humanly  fond  of  self  and  unmindful  of  others.  We  are 
all  sticklers  for  our  rights  and  dignity  ;  things  of  mighty 
importance  to  us,  but  of  little  consequence  to  anybody 
else.  No  wonder  we  get  hurt !  People  are  not  absolutely 
wicked,  my  dear ;  only  thoughtless  and  careless  and  sel- 
fish. Do  you  suppose  any  of  us  realize  how  often  we 
pain  somebody  else  ?  If  my  little  personality  is  wounded  I 
try  to  rise  up  and  look  down  upon  it  as  the  all-seeing,  dis- 
passionate One  might  do,  comparing  it  with  all  the  other 
ills  and  vexations  that  go  to  makeup  the  sorrows  of  a  world. 
If  we  are  small  in  anything,  my  dear,  it  is  in  our  afflictions. 
We  can't  get  above  our  own  petty  calamities.  Think  of 
the  great,  slow  ox  that  steps  upon  a  worm.  Of  course  the 
worm  is  enraged  because  it  can  only  understand  what  it 
feels  ;  but  man,  who  is  superior  to  both  ox  and  worm,  can't 
blame  the  ox  for  all  he  pities  the  worm.  People  jostle  us 
and  hurt  us  all  the  time,  and  pass  on  unmindful ;  and  the 
great  Eye  above  us  looks  down  and  sees  all,  and  pities  all, 
and  forgives  all." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 7 1 

When  they  reached  Mr.  Ingraham's  gate  Miss  Belmont 
went  in,  and  Wilma  hurried  home.  Some  of  the  girls 
had  been  to  the  office  and  brought  the  mail;  there  was 
another  "extra"  from  Charley,  a  cheery,  gossipy  letter, 
written  in  his  lightest  vein  He  had  recently  entered  the 
law  school,  and  wrote  graphically  about  it,  describing 
mock-court  and  all  the  interesting  and  amusing  things 
connected  with  it,  dashing  off  his  sentences  in  a  vigorous, 
rapid  style  peculiar  to  him.  Toward  the  last  the  letter 
ran  on  to  say : 

"  I've  had  my  hair  cut,  Wilma,  and  my  chum  Ben  says 
to  tell  you  it  looks  like  thunder;  a  meaningless  slang,  if 
not  profanity.  We  are  going  out  this  evening  (which  ex- 
plains my  visiting  the  barber-shop,  though  I  am  not  sure 
my  appearance  is  improved).  We  expect  to  meet  a  young 
lion  lately  arrived  from  the  East,  who  is  making  some- 
thing of  a  sensation  here.  A  lawyer,  by  the  way;  we 
heard  him  plead  a  case  very  eloquently  the  other  day  in 
court.  Absolutely  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw ;  his 
name  is  Courtenay.  It  seems  funny  to  speak  of  a  man's 
beauty,  doesn't  it.  There  is  nothing  more  contemptible 
than  masculine  prettiness;  but  real  masculine  beauty,  which 
includes  grace,  strength,  symmetry,  is  something  rather 
glorious,  and,  I  must  say,  not  often  met  with.  Ben  is 
hurrying  me,  says  it  is  time  to  go,  and  I  am  not  dressed 
yet.  What  uniform  creatures  we  men  are.  Here  are 
Ben  and  myself,  with  our  white  vests  and  neckties,  as 
much  alike  as  two  clothes-pins,  setting  aside  a  little  differ- 
ence of  feature.  By-by." 

Later. — "  Back  again  and  at  my  desk  to  scrawl  another 
line  to  my  darling.  Have  had  a  very  lively  evening,  but 
am  disgusted  with  myself  and  all  concerned  on  account 
of  it.  Saw  but  little  of  the  magnificent  Courtenay;  the 
ladies  monopolized  him,  as  might  have  been  expected. 
They  monopolized  me,  too;  kept  me  playing  cards  and 
talking  nonsense  for  three  hours.  Three  hours  !  Three 
precious,  golden  hours.  How  poor  I  feel  after  wasting 
so  much  of  my  capital !  I  might  have  been  reading 
Shakspeare  all  that  time,  and  gleaned  many  a  fine  thought 
and  expanded  my  brain.  I  am  not  going  to  spend  any 
more  evenings  with  young  ladies  who  have  to  entertain 


T  7  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

me  with  cards.  Three  hours,  ugh  !  Three  hours  would 
have  saved  the  field  of  Waterloo  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
However,  I  have  one  small  comfort,  my  time  is  not  so 
precious  as  Napoleon's  was  on  that  occasion.  My  letter  is 
getting  too  long,  darling,  and  besides  it  is  past  midnight. 
"  With  tender  love, 

"  Your  CHARLEY." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  holidays  were  at  hand,  and  in  consequence,  a 
short  vacation  ;  but  so  short,  that  but  few  availed  them- 
selves of  the  opportunity  it  offered  to  go  out  of  town. 
There  was  to  be  a  "sociable"  in  the  ladies'  hall  the 
last  evening  of  the  term,  as  had  long  been  the  custom  at 
Crawford  Academy.  Immediately  after  tea,  on  the  event- 
ful day,  Mrs.  Woods's  young  ladies  retired  into  their  re- 
spective rooms  to  make  preparations.  Quite  elaborate 
all  of  them  were  but  Wilma's  ;  what  she  should  wear  was 
not  a  very  broad  question  to  Wilma,  being  limited  to  one 
or  two  "best"  dresses  and  a  few  simple  ornaments.  She 
had  just  combed  out  her  long  hair  ready  for  braiding, 
when  Miss  Raymond  came  in  already  dressed,  with  her 
quaint  little  air  of  primness  and  dignity,  and  turned  her- 
self round  to  be  inspected. 

"  How  do  I  look,  Wilma?"  she  asked,  with  her  pretty 
artlessness. 

"Beautiful,"  said  Wilma;  but  the  word  did  not  ex- 
press half  the  admiration  in  her  eloquent  eyes.  Miss 
Raymond,  pleased  with  the  compliment,  whose  genuine- 
ness it  was  impossible  to  doubt,  smiled  and  seated  herself 
on  the  bedside  and  gave  her  attention  to  Wilma's  opera- 
tions. 

"You  have  such  lovely  hair,  my  dear,"  she  said.  Her 
own  shining  black  braids  were  coiled  like  a  coronet  round 
her  shapely  little  head,  daintily  poised  on  its  slim,  white 
stem  of  a  neck. 

"A  good  many  people  here  speak  of  my  har,"  Wilma 


HIGH-  WA  TER-A1ARK. 


173 


returned  ;  "at  home  we  never  thought  much  about  it  ex- 
cept that  it  was  hard  to  comb,  because  it  is  so  thick  and 
long." 

"Let  me  fix  the  braids  and  fasten  the  bow  on,"  said 
Miss  Raymond,  and  stood  on  tip-toe  to  do  it,  and  then 
stepped  back  to  consider  the  effect. 

"  Did  any  one  ever  tell  you  you  looked  well  in  pink 
ribbons,  Wilma?" 

"Yes,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  and  stopped,  blushing. 

Miss  Raymond  was  again  intent  upon  the  hair,  touch- 
ing it  up  here  and  there. 

"Charley  who,  your  brother?  You  have  never  told 
me  anything  about  your  folks,  Wilma.  I  have  told  you 
all  about  my  two  brothers,  Starr  and  VVaddy,  and  every- 
body else  I  know." 

Before  Wilma  had  time  to  reply,  Miss  Allen  came  in, 
and  as  soon  as  her  toilet  was  finished,  she  and  Miss  Ray- 
mond went  out  into  the  study-room  where  Mrs.  Woods 
and  Rachel  were  waiting  to  see  the  young  ladies'  dresses. 

"Oh,  Miss  Raymun' !  sie  vill  al'ays  look  so  sweet," 
Rachel  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands  ecstatically,  and 
turning  for  confirmation  to  Mrs.  Woods,  whose  grim 
smile  expressed  as  much  approbation  perhaps  as  Rachel's 
utmost  enthusiasm ;  each  regulating  the  scale  of  feeling 
according  to  her  own  standard,  as  different  thermometers 
are  regulated. 

Wilma's  attire,  though  pretty  and  effective,  Rachel  ran 
over  with  a  rapidity  and  completeness  of  comprehension 
that  larger  brains  might  have  envied,  the  light  in  her  face 
gradually  subsiding.  But  it  blazed  up  again  when  the 
other  young  ladies  made  their  appearance.  Miss  Morris, 
as  usual,  had  fashioned  herself  upon  the  model  of  her 
friend,  and  came  out  gloomy  and  repellent,  as  upon  most 
occasions  when  her  poverty  was  contrasted  with  others' 
abundance.  Miss  Maclvers  was  resplendent  in  amber- 
colored  silk,  and  soft  laces  and  jewelry.  Miss  Beach  was 
dressed  as  became  her  dumpling  figure,  dimpled  shoulders, 
and  baby  arms,  in  low  neck  and  short  sleeves,  with  a  gold 
necklace  and  bracelets.  Miss  Allen,  the  gayest  of  all, 
had  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  an  immense,  fan-shaped 
train.  The  latter  she  spread  out  like  a  peacock's  tail, 

15* 


'74 


HIGH-  WATER-MARK. 


and  glanced  over  her  shoulder  to  observe  the  effect,  and 
was  rapturously  praised  by  the  enthusiastic  Rachel  in 
broken  English.  Rachel  stood  in  great  awe  of  Miss 
Maclvers,  and  merely  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  her 
unbounded  admiration  of  that  regal  young  lady,  having 
an  instinct  that  anything  more  demonstrative  might  be 
resented.  Gray  and  Liebenwald  came  down-stairs  in 
stiff  white  collars  and  fresh  cravats,  and  passed  through 
the  room,  raising  their  eyes  timidly  and  with  much  de- 
ferential respect  (they  would  not  have  presumed  upon 
admiration)  toward  the  young  ladies. 

Shortly  after  there  was  a  knock,  and  Rachel  and  Mrs. 
Woods  hastily  retired.  Miss  Maclvers  went  to  the  door. 
She  had  a  promised  escort  from  the  department  of  Greek 
and  Latin  and  the  higher  mathematics, — a  Mr.  Haviland, 
— and  that  gentleman  now  made  his  appearance.  It  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Haviland  had  enjoyed 
many  more  of  the  advantages  of  polite  society — he  being 
a  Congressman's  son — than  Gray  and  Liebenwald  ;  yet 
even  he  looked  slightly  disconcerted  at  finding  himself 
alone,  in  one  sense,  in  such  a  magnificent  company  of 
ladies.  Miss  Maclvers  exerted  herself  to  put  him  at  his 
ease. 

"  It  is  early,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Haviland?"  she  asked,  and 
Mr.  Haviland  appealed  to  his  watch,  and  replied  that  it 
was  a  quarter  past  eight. 

"  Oh,  it  is  quite  too  early  to  go  !"  said  Miss  Allen. 

Presently  there  was  an  imperative  knock  at  Mrs.  Woods's 
door,  which  was  the  main  entrance  from  the  street,  and 
Rachel,  shuffling  along  the  hall  in  a  pair  of  old  slippers 
without  heels,  ushered  into  the  study-room  two  young 
men  and  announced,  "Some  visitors  for  Miss  Ray- 
mond." 

Miss  Raymond  started  up  and  ran  forward,  and  was 
lifted  quite  off  her  feet  by  one  of  them, — a  young  gentle- 
man with  a  downy  upper  lip  and  smooth,  boyish  face, 
a  masculine  copy  of  her  own. 

"  Waddy,  let  me  down  ;  don't  you  see  the  room  is  full 
of  people  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Waddy"  set  her  down  in  mock  haste,  and  lifted  his 
hat  to  the  roomful  of  people  with  an  impudence  that 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  175 

would  seem  unpardonable  to  any  one  not  witnessing  it. 
Those  who  did  witness  it  laughed.  The  other  gentle- 
man being  older — to  the  extent  of  a  luxuriant  moustache 
and  chin-whiskers,  which  he  took  in  his  hand  while  wait- 
ing his  turn  to  be  greeted, — was  considerably  more  digni- 
fied and  undemonstrative.  He  bent  his  head  gravely, 
and  Miss  Raymond  grasping  his  two  hands,  stood  on 
tip-toe  to  kiss  him,  after  which  she  introduced  to  the 
company,  with  sisterly  pride,  her  two  brothers,  "Starr" 
and  "  Waddy." 

"Oh,  please  set  me  up  properly,  Arabella!"  begged 
the  younger,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  in  the  attitude  of 
bowing. 

Miss  Raymond  laughingly  explained  that  Waddy  was 
"short"  for  Warren. 

"  And  an  exceedingly  undignified  abbreviation  it  is  !" 
said  the  young  man. 

Miss  Morris  crossed  the  room  with  unaccustomed  alac- 
rity, and  gave  her  hand  to  the  elder  Mr.  Raymond  with 
extreme  cordiality.  The  greeting  between  herself  and 
Warren  was  less  warm,  and  on  his  part  tinged  with  a 
ceremoniousness  very  much  like  his  sister's.  When  the 
sociable  was  mentioned,  he  expressed  himself  as  delighted, 
and  inquired  what  was  considered  the  fashionable  hour  to 
put  in  an  appearance. 

"  Perhaps  your  brother  Starr  doesn't  care  to  go,  Ara- 
bella," said  Miss  Morris,  feeling  that  for  her  part  she 
would  be  satisfied  to  remain  at  home  and  entertain  him. 

But  Starr  hastened  to  assure  her  that  nothing  could 
give  him  greater  pleasure,  and  the  young  ladies  went  out 
to  get  their  wraps. 

Miss  Raymond  turned  back  to  speak  a  confidential 
word  to  her  brothers.  "You  will  have  to  do  the  agree- 
able and  escort  some  of  the  girls,"  she  said.  "  Of  course, 
Matilda  will  expect  to  go  with  you,  Starr." 

Warren  hastily  echoed,  "Of  course!"  and  Starr  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"  But  I  shall  go  with  you,  too,"  she  added  as  an  offset. 
"  And  you,  Waddy,  must  offer  yourself  to  some  of  the 
others." 

Warren  begged   to   know  how  many.      "You  know, 


1 7  6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Arabella,"  he  said,  "  two  are  all  a  gentleman  can  wait 
upon  handsomely.  And,  by  the  way,  can't  you  contrive 
to  make  that  little,  black-eyed  beauty  one  of  them  ?" 

But  Miss  Maclvers  had  Magnanimously  invited  Miss 
Beach  to  "go  with  us,"  and  Wilma  and  Miss  Allen  fell 
to  Warren's  share. 

The  night  was  quite  mild  and  still ;  the  moon  shone 
softly  on  the  snow,  and  the  stars  glimmered  faintly 
through  a  thin,  delicate  mist  Warren  insisted  upon  not 
following  the  others,  but  going  around  a  block  or  two  to 
give  him  an  opportunity  to  see  more  of  the  town ;  said  he 
was  already  familiar  with  the  main  street,  he  and  Starr 
having  paraded  up  and  down  it  some  half-dozen  times 
that  evening  trying  to  find  their  sister.  When  they 
reached  the  academy  and  proceeded  to  the  ladies'  hall, 
— after  leaving  their  wrappings  in  a  little  room  outside, — 
the  rest  of  their  party  were  already  upon  the  floor  prome- 
nading to  slow  music  which  somebody  was  playing  on  the 
piano. 

"Would  it  be  agreeable  to  you  to  fall  in?"  Warren 
asked.  He  had  one  of  his  companions  upon  either  arm, 
and  it  being  agreeable  to  them,  at  a  convenient  opening 
they  edged  into  the  procession. 

The  music,  the  lights,  the  warmth,  the  hum  of  voices, 
the  numerous  and  graceful  figures  in  rhythmic  motion, 
had  a  pleasing  effect  on  the  senses.  It  was  Wilma's  first 
sociable,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with  excited  enjoyment 
of  it,  and  her  heart  swelled  with  a  longing  for  Charley 
to  share  it  with  her.  Never  an  emotion  stirred  in  her 
soul,  of  pain  or  delight,  but  she  turned  instinctively  to 
him  for  sympathy. 

There  were  two  circles  of  promenaders  moving,  one 
within  the  other,  in  opposite  directions,  and  presently 
Wilma  encountered  Miss  Percy  on  Mr.  Ingraham's  arm, 
smiling  and  radiantly  beautiful. 

'  That   majestic  individual  is  your  principal,  I   take 


it? 


said  Warren. 
'Yes,"  Miss  Allen  answered. 
'And  who  is  the. lady?" 

'  That  is  Miss  Percy,  our  elocution  and  music  teacher." 
'  Indeed  !"  turning  his  head  to  look  after  her.     "  Ara- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-  MARK.  177 

bella's  letters  have  been  full  of  her.  A  very  remarkable 
looking  lady  !" 

"Beautiful,  don't  you  think?"  asked  Wilma. 

"Angelic  !"  said  Warren. 

Farther  up  the  room  sat  Miss  Belmont,  talking  with  one 
of  the  ministers  of  the  place. 

After  making  one  or  two  rounds  of  the  hall,  Mr.  Ingra- 
ham  seated  Miss  Percy,  and  Wilma,  asking  to  be  excused, 
went  up  to  her. 

"I  never  saw  you  looking  so  well  as  you  do  to-night, 
Miss  Percy,"  she  said,  with  fervent  admiration. 

"I  am  trying  to  fancy  myself  happy,  to  see  how  it  will 
seem,"  said  Miss  Percy,  with  a  half-pleased,  half-mocking 
smile.  "I  have  put  on  one  of  my  old  party  dresses," 
glancing  at  the  folds  of  sheeny  silk  that  swept  around  her, 
"  and  my  jewelry,  to  try  to  make  myself  think  that  things 
are  just  as  they  used  to  be,  and  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  sorrow.  The  night  I  last  wore  these  things  I  had  never 
known  the  meaning  of  the  word  ;  and  now  I  can  scarcely 
realize  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  happiness  !" 

Wilma  wondered  vaguely  whether  happiness  and  unhap- 
piness  are  real,  tangible  things,  or  only  phantoms ;  the  one 
an  ignus-fatuus  which  we  follow,  and  the  other  a  hideous 
nightmare  which  follows  us  ! 

What  are  these  unseen  influences  that  fasten  upon  us 
and  make  us  happy  or  miserable?  Have  they  any  real, 
sovereign  power  and  right  to  rule  over  us,  or  are  they 
mere  superstitions? 

If  Wilma  had  been  inclined  to  doubt  the  reality  of 
Miss  Percy's  settled  grief,  she  might  with  equal  cause,  per- 
haps, have  doubted  her  own  happiness. 

Though  we  seldom  do  have  any  doubts  about  our  own 
state  ;  it  is  only  other  people's  joys  and  sorrows  that  wear 
an  air  of  romance. 

"  Now,  if  it  were  a  possible  thing  to  forget,"  said  Miss 
Percy,  narrowing  her  gaze  and  looking  through  her  long 
eyelashes,  "  if  memory  were  not  always  tugging  at  one's 
heart-strings  and  pumping  the  zest  out  of  life,  one  might 
be  happy  in  this  world  ;  there  is  enough  in  it,  one  would 
think,  and  each  of  us  has  enough  for  our  needs.  Any 
philosopher  would  tell  us  that,  I  suppose.  Miss  Belmont 
H* 


178 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


doubtless  thinks  we  have  more  than  we  deserve.  But  it 
seems  to  me  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere ;  either  we 
ought  to  be  more  like  the  lower  animals, — satisfied  with 
physical  blessings, — or  else  there  ought  to  be  less  pre- 
carious provision  for  our  higher  wants.  Which  do  you 
think  it  ought  to  be,  Wilma?  As  it  is,  the  better  part  of 
us  is  too  often  starved  !" 

Wilma  had  gathered  some  confused  ideas  from  Miss 
Belmont  about  building  one's  life  upon  a  solid  basis,  and 
leaning  upon  the  strong  arm  of  the  great  fundamental  laws 
underlying  the  universe;  one  of  which  bore  strongly  upon 
the  physical  condition  of  man,  commending  to  his  par- 
ticular care  the  house  we  live  in. 

"You  will  never  find  a  thoroughly  healthy,  strong  per- 
son in  a  continued  morbid,  abnormal  state  of  mind," 
Miss  Belmont  said.  "  Keep  the  body  robust  and  vigor- 
ous, and  sentimental  griefs  will  vanish  like  clouds  before 
the  sun." 

But  would  Miss  Percy  admit  that  hers  was  a  sentimental 
grief  that  she  might  throw  off  if  she  had  a  good  diges- 
tion? Hardly.  It  takes  a  disinterested  party  to  say 
whether  we  have  good  cause  to  weep.  And  even  he  can- 
not convince  us,  and  only  makes  himself  disagreeable. 
Sentimental  sorrows  are  as  stubborn  as  any  other  sorrows, 
and  perhaps  appear  more  blind  and  exasperating  to  those 
who  undertake  the  office  of  comforters. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Wilma,  with  a  mental  struggle  to  get 
hold  of  something  to  say,  "there  is  enough  in  the  world 
for  all  our  wants  if  we  could  get  the  right  things." 

Miss  Percy  laughed,  bitterly. 

"A  beggar  might  console  himself  with  the  same  reflec- 
tion. Though  I  suppose  your  words  have  a  far  deeper 
meaning,"  she  added,  mockingly,  "  whether  you  see  it  or 
not.  You  got  them  from  Miss  Belmont,  I  suspect." 

Wilma  reddened. 

"  How  little  either  you  or  Miss  Belmont  know  of  these 
things,"  Miss  Percy  continued,  with  her  narrowed  gaze. 

"  Surely  Miss  Belmont  knows,"  said  Wilma,  who  could 
not  conceive  of  Miss  Belmont's  being  in  the  dark  upon 
any  subject  whatsoever. 

"Why?    Because  she  professes  to  be  a  philosopher? 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


179 


She  is  a  mere  bookworm,  a  mathematician  laying  out 
her  life  by  the  square  and  compass.  She  seems  no  more 
human  or  sympathetic  than  the  stars  in  the  heavens.  She 
has  not  a  particle  of  interest  for  me." 

Wilma  had  seldom  seen  Miss  Percy  so  excited  about 
anything  not  pertaining  to  herself.  Her  cheeks  glowed 
and  her  eyes  flashed  defiantly.  But  her  very  vehemence 
disproved  her  professed  indifference  to  the  preceptress. 
Miss  Belmont  had  an  interest  for  her,  inasmuch  as  she 
aroused  in  her  a  spirit  of  angry  resistance. 

Wilma  had  a  dim  perception  of  the  attitude  of  the  two 
toward  each  other.  Miss  Belmont,  calm,  strong,  clear- 
headed, understood  and  pitied  Miss  Percy's  unhappy  con- 
dition. The  preceptress  did  not  dwell  upon  and  lament 
the  innumerable  sorrows  of  mankind  ;  the  important  thing 
with  her  was  their  effects  upon  individuals.  Miss  Percy 
was  keen  enough  to  see  that  not  her  afflictions,  even  had 
they  been  known  to  Miss  Belmont,  but  their  results  in 
her  were  compassionated.  And  this  sort  of  compassion, 
though  generous  and  broad,  was  yet  unconsciously  tinged 
with  contempt  for  the  weakness  and  wil fulness  that  would 
not  rise  above  the  accidents  of  life.  And  it  stung  Miss 
Percy  into  asking  herself  the  startling  question,  "Am  I 
exaggerating  my  suffering,  and  are  my  sorrows  not  real  ? 
could  I  get  above  them  and  take  hold  of  life  anew?" 
Arousing  her  momentarily  out  of  the  luxury  of  her  grief 
and  making  her  ashamed,  as  a  drunken  man  brought  sud- 
denly to  sober  consciousness  in  the  presence  of  clear- 
minded  people,  who  feel  a  certain  fine  scorn  for  his  weak- 
ness, might  feel  ashamed.  Miss  Belmont,  in  her  strength 
and  wisdom,  seemed  to  so  sit  in  judgment  upon  her  and 
draw  her  out  of  her  abandonment.  And  she  did  not 
want  to  be  drawn  out  of  it;  she  was  like  a  morbid,  sick 
person  who  shuts  the  blinds  and  will  not  let  the  sun  come 
in  with  its  cheer  and  brightness. 

Miss  Percy  had  scarcely  ceased  speaking  when,  glancing 
across  the  room,  she  met  Miss  Belmont's  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  with  a  half-sad,  wistful  expression,  and  to  Wilma's 
surprise  she  got  up  abruptly  and  went  over  and  sat  down 
beside  her  in  the  place  which  the  minister  had  just  va- 
cated. 


1 80  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  was  her  sudden,  un- 
expected question.  "You  have  something  in  your  face 
when  you  look  at  me  that  seems  like  reproach.  Do  you 
think  me  wicked,  weak,  worthless?" 

Miss  Belmont  met  the  flashing,  defiant,  yet  half-relent- 
ing face  without  any  pretence  of  not  understanding  her. 

"What  do  I  want  you  to  do?"  she  asked.  "Gather 
up  your  forces  and  live." 

"  My  forces  are  spent,"  said  Miss  Percy,  bitterly. 

"No;  they  are  not  spent,"  returned  the  preceptress. 
"  Some  of  them  are  even  too  strong.  Your  imagination 
never  sleeps;  it  carries  away  your  reason  and  judgment, 
and  destroys  all  interest  in  reality.  My  dear,  your  feet 
are  not  fastened  to  any  spot;  you  take  hold  of  nothing 
tangible;  and  humanity  is  so  weak  when  it  stands  alone." 

Large  tears  gathered  slowly  in  Miss  Percy's  blue  eyes. 

"You  need  not  have  told  me  that,"  she  said,  tremu- 
lously, but  with  a  strong  effort  to  keep  up  her  pride.  "  I 
once  had  friends  in  whom  I  trusted,  but  I  have  learned  the 
sad  lesson  that  one  cannot  rely  even  on  one's  friends." 

"There  is  a  still  sadder  lesson,"  said  Miss  Belmont: 
"  that  one  cannot  rely  on  oneself.  We  know  not  what 
forces  may  develop  in  us  under  the  stress  of  circum- 
stances. I  had  a  motto  given  to  me  once,  to  fit  a  certain 
event  in  my  life,  that  I  have  endeavored  to  guide  myself 
by  in  all  my  relations  with  others.  It  is  this,  '  Be  true 
yourself  and  let  time  shape  the  rest.'  My  dear,  there  are 
few  things  which  we  greatly  need  that  will  not  come  to 
us  by  being  true  and  waiting  patiently." 

"You  preach  like  all  the  rest  !"  said  Miss  Percy,  curl- 
ing her  lip.  "  Why  don't  you  preachers  and  teachers 
say,  Do  this  or  do  that?  I  can  do,  but  I  cannot  wait." 

"  Because  no  one  dare  lay  down  a  special  law  for  an- 
other; each  must  be  a  law  to  himself,"  said  Miss  Belmont. 

"  What !  not  even  you  who  live  so  far  above  us  and 
have  no  part  or  interest  in  the  affairs  of  weak  mortals?" 

Miss  Belmont  winced. 

"  If  I  had  no  part  or  interest  in  the  affairs  of  weak 
mortals,  I  should  indeed  be  a  poor  sympathizer  and 
teacher,"  she  said,  her  great  heart  quivering  for  a  mo- 
ment; for,  under  all  her  philosophy,  Miss  Belmont  was 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 8 1 

tender  and  sensitive.     Her  philosophy  only  helped  her 
to  bear  and  to  hide  her  hurts. 

"  Consider  me  a  child,  irresponsible,  and  without  dis- 
cretion to  exercise  free  will;  and  take  me  in  hand,"  said 
Miss  Percy,  with  a  smile  and  half-sneer,  as  doubting 
whether  anything  could  be  made  out  of  her  case.- 

"  Well,  the  first  thing  I  should  do  with  you,"  said  Miss 
Belmont,  smiling,  "would  be  to  put  you  on  a  mental 
diet.  I  would  take  away  your  books  and  your  music  for 
a  time  and  allow  you  no  unwholesome  reflections.  I 
would  wake  up  all  your  faculties  that  are  asleep,  and  lull 
to  sleep  all  that  have  been  on  too  long  a  strain." 

"  My  books  and  music?"  said  Miss  Percy,  opening  her 
large  eyes.  "They  are  my  only  comforters." 

"But  they  are  morbid  comforters,"  said  Miss  Belmont. 
"  I  sometimes  wish  no  books  were  written  to  sympathize 
with  our  selfish  sorrows  and  so  exaggerate  them.  We 
should  have  books  that  would  take  us  out  of  ourselves 
and  interest  us  in  things  more  worthy  our  thoughts  than 
our  own  petty  troubles,  which  we  are  always  too  prone  to 
magnify.  Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Percy,  this  sorrow 
which  you  are  hugging  to  your  heart,  and  which  is  drain- 
ing all  the  good  out  of  your  life,  is  not  so  gigantic  as  you 
think  it  is,  if  you  would  but  thrust  it  away  from  you  far 
enough  to  enable  you  to  look  at  it  dispassionately.  People, 
I  believe,  are  more  selfish  and  more  blinded  to  duty — 
more  reckless — in  their  sorrows  than  in  their  joys,  or  even 
their  pleasures  and  dissipations.  Everything  must  give 
way  to  the  majesty  of  grief.  I  cannot  but  think  that  one 
of  the  reasons  why  people  yield  to  it  so  completely  and 
with  so  little  compunction,  springs  from  the  old  belief 
that  there  is  merit  in  being  miserable',  a  sort  of  sacrament 
in  self-inflicted  pain.  For  really,  my  dear,  many  of  our 
heartaches  are  self-inflicted ;  and  there  is,  after  all,  a  sort 
of  satisfaction  or  luxury  in  them  that  gives  our  yielding 
the  character  of  indulgence,  and  makes  it  a  crime  to  waste 
our  lives  in  vain  regret  and  sorrow." 

Miss  Percy's  eyes  were  downcast,  and  her  lips  had  lost 
something  of  their  usual  haughty  curve.  Miss  Belmont 
was  watching  her  narrowly.  She  continued  speaking  in 
the  kindest,  most  persuasive  manner. 

16 


1 8  2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  turn  about  and  right  oneself 
after  a  great  shock;  a  trouble  comes  upon  us  and  revolution- 
izes the  world  for  us,  and  after  that  every  other  way  seems 
barred  except  the  narrow  channel  of  sorrowful  memory 
and  bitter  regret.  And  this  narrow  channel  comes  to  be, 
finally,  scarcely  more  than  a  habit.  The  keenest  griefs, 
by  and  by,  lose  their  strong  emphasis  of  pain,  and  the 
most  we  have  to  do  is  to  break  up  habit,  and  herein  lies 
our  duty." 

"Duty,"  said  Miss  Percy,  sneeringly,  and  yet  with  a 
tremulousness  that  showed  how  painfully  and  throbbingly 
her  heart  vibrated.  "  What  duty  can  one  have  who 
stands  alone, — cut  off  from  all  the  world?" 

"  My  dear,  no  one  can  be  so  cut  off;  family  ties  may 
be  severed  (and,  indeed,  we  are  apt  to  place  too  great  a 
stress  upon  these),  but  there  is  our  common  humanity 
which  nothing  can  destroy,  and  which  is  forever  creating 
duties  for  us  toward  our  fellow-men.  Besides,  there  is 
something  you  owe  to  yourself  which  you  should  not 
defraud  yourself  of.  You  have  a  fine  nature  to  be  de- 
veloped and  cultivated  ;  you  have  talents  that  ought  to  be 
employed.  You  have  it  in  you,  by  your  genius  and  ac- 
complishments, to  shed  abroad  on  those  around  you  great 
spiritual  warmth  and  light.  You  hold  in  your  hands  a 
power  to  elevate  and  refine  that  the  fewest  possess.  My 
dear,  our  duties  correspond  exactly  with  our  abilities,  and 
in  the  grand  book-keeping  of  life  ought  to  balance." 

Miss  Percy  was  growing  restive,  and  Miss  Belmont  was 
warned  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  common,  tiresome 
habit  of  preaching.  She  checked  nerself  with  a  sigh,  and 
Miss  Percy  got  up  abruptly  and  walked  away  with  a 
haughtier  step  than  usual.  She  spoke  to  Miss  Pettibone 
and  the  two  left  the  room  together.  After  that  her  man- 
ner bore  even  a  more  marked  coldness  toward  the  pre- 
ceptress, which  that  patient  heart  bore  as  it  did  all  the 
hard,  unkind  things  of  life,  without  protest. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Ingraham,  frowning  and  smiling 
more  than  ever,  and  diffusing  a  very  genial  influence 
everywhere  (his  presence  seemed  to  radiate  to  the  farthest 
corner,  no  matter  how  large  the  room),  came  up  with 
Miss  Raymond  upon  one  arm,  and  invited  Wilma  to  take 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 83 

the  other.  Wilma  had  lost  consciousness  of  her  surround- 
ings and  sat  still,  thinking.  Mr.  Ingraham's  voice  aroused 
her,  and  she  got  up  gladly  and  took  the  offered  arm,  feel- 
ing the  old  sense  of  protection  with  which  he  had  inspired 
her  on  their  first  day's  acquaintance, — a  feeling  that  Mr. 
Ingraham  was  able  to  call  into  play  at  will. 

"How  much  I  should  enjoy  this,  now,  if  we  could 
dance,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  her  face  radiant.  Some 
one  else  had  taken  the  piano-stool  and  was  playing  a 
delicious  waltz. 

"Pooh,  pooh,"  said  Mr.  Ingraham.  "How  does 
dancing  differ  from  this?  A  mere  acceleration  of  mo- 
tion, like  when  one's  horse  breaks  into  a  gallop." 

"Well,  who  wouldn't  rather  gallop  than  walk?"  said 
Miss  Raymond. 

Mr.  Ingraham  shook  his  head. 

"Pray,  did  you  never  dance?"  said  Miss  Raymond, 
looking  up  at  him  archly. 

"  Did  I  never  dance?  Yes;  and  I  have  seen  the  folly 
of  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  want  to  see  the  folly  of  it,  too,"  she  said, 
saucily. 

Mr.  Ingraham  laughed.  "  Do  you  want  to  see  the  folly 
of  it,  Miss  Lynne  ?"  he  asked,  looking  down. 

"No,"  said  Wilma,  quickly;  "I  would  rather  stop 
short  of  that." 

"Good  !"  said  he,  throwing  back  his  head.  "Better 
not  wear  things  out ;  stop  while  they  have  a  pleasant  taste 
and  will  leave  a  sweet  memory." 

He  had  become  suddenly  grave,  and  knit  his  black 
brows.  But  Wilma  was  too  young  and  inexperienced  to 
wonder  whether  he  had  not  tasted  some  bitter  dregs.  A 
moment  later  she  dropped  his  arm  abruptly  and  stood 
still.  Looking  down  and  following  her  glance,  he  saw 
framed  in  the  door-way  they  were  just  passing,  a  hand- 
some young  stranger  standing  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
Wilma  took  a  step  forward,  and  the  stranger  advanced 
with  a  smiling,  expansive  expression  of  face  and  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Oh,  Charley!  how  you  startled  me,"  she  said.  Her 
eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  him  were  full  of  tears. 


1 84  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"Did  I?"  said  he.  "It  was  stupid  of  me  to  come 
upon  you  so  abruptly.  I  really  could  not  avoid  it,  though  ; 
that  is,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  let  you  know  before- 
hand. But  do  you  know,  I  had  it  in  my  mind  that  sur- 
prise adds  something  to  the  joy  of  meeting  !" 

The  current  of  promenaders  swept  by,  they  drifting  a 
little  to  one  side.  Miss  Raymond,  comprehending  the 
situation  with  her  accustomed  quickness,  had  drawn  Mr. 
Ingraham  away.  Mr.  Burns,  annoyed  by  the  many  pairs 
of  curious  eyes  levelled  at  them  by  the  promenaders  in 
passing,  drew  Wilma's  hand  through  his  arm  and  fell  in 
with  the  procession. 

"  I  might  have  known  it  would  be  a  shock  to  you,"  he 
said,  ruefully ;  "  but  I  had  no  time  to  write  after  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  come." 

"  Don't  think  about  it,"  said  Wilma.  "  It  is  all  over 
now,  and  oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Burns  was  very  susceptible  in  some  respects.  A 
pleased  flush  spread  itself  over  his  boyish  face,  and  his  blue 
eyes  kindled. 

"Are  you?"  said  he,  pressing  her  hand  close  against 
his  side.  They  moved  on  for  a  little  while  in  silence, 
each  feeling  a  rush  of  tender  emotion  to  which  the  music 
seemed  to  play  a  happy  accompaniment. 

By  and  by  the  current  began  to  crystallize  into  little 
knots  and  clusters,  and  Wilma,  observing  Mr.  Ingraham 
in  the  centre  of  one  of  them,  said  to  Charley,  "I  must 
introduce  you  to  somebody,  must  I  not  ?  To  Mr.  In- 
graham ?" 

Mr.  Ingraham  was  a  great  man  to  Wilma,  who  did  not 
in  the  least  comprehend  Mr.  Burns's  view  of  him.  Mr. 
Burns's  life  had  widened  out  much  more  than  Wilma's, 
and  principals  of  country  academies  occupied  no  very 
high  rank  in  the  social  and  intellectual  world  which  his 
broad  consciousness  embraced.  He  lost  sight  of  that 
which  he  himself  advocated,  that  a  man  can  make  the 
most  of  himself  just  where  he  happens  to  be  placed.  Per- 
haps he  hardly  believed  in  the  truth  of  his  own  theory 
(so  many  of  us  unwittingly  preach  one  principle  and  act 
upon  another),  or  else  had  little  faith  in  its  ever  being  put 
into  practice.  People  so  often  justify  in  their  lives  being 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  x  85 

placed  by  fortune  (or  what  not)  in  modest  positions  that 
perhaps  a  young  man  of  Mr.  Burns's  limited  observation 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  look  for  anything  but  a  school- 
master in  a  schoolmaster.  He  had  a  suspicion  (and  in  it 
lay,  secretly,  a  flattering  hope  such  as  most  ambitious 
young  men  feel)  that  greatness  will  eventually  show  itself 
at  the  front;  whether  forcing  its  way  there  by  its  own 
volition  and  momentum,  or  borne  there  by  circumstances, 
was  a  question  with  which  he  sometimes  wrestled,  the  two 
sides  gathering  weight,  alternately,  from  such  illustrious 
examples  as  Bonaparte,  William  the  Conqueror,  Shak- 
speare,  and  others.  He  did  not  care  particularly  to  be 
introduced  to  Mr.  Ingraham,  he  said,  but  if  it  came  in 
the  way  he  had  no  objection. 

It  did  come  in  the  way,  Mr.  Ingraham  himself  advancing 
to  shake  hands  with  the  stranger  with  great  cordiality. 
True  to  his  prejudice,  Mr.  Burns  was  not  favorably  im- 
pressed ;  he  disliked  an  overflowing  manner,  and  in- 
trenched himself  all  the  more  strongly  with  a  dignified 
reserve.  His  pride  was  of  a  very  sensitive  sort;  there 
was  something  presumptuous  and  not  altogether  respect- 
ful, to  him,  in  the  easy  familiarity  with  which  many  people 
approach  us. 

He  had  hardly  got  through  the  introduction,  however, 
when  Mr.  Starr  Raymond  came  up  to  them  and  grasped 
his  hand. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Burns?"  said  he.  "Who 
would  have  thought  of  meeting  you  here.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  us  you  had  friends  here,  and  come  with  us?" 

"  How  did  I  know  you  had  friends  here  and  were  com- 
ing !"  retorted  Mr.  Burns,  laughing.  "Though,  by  the 
way,  I  did  know.  You  have  a  sister?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Raymond  had  come  up  on  her  brother's  arm.  At 
this  moment  she  stood  a  little  in  the  background.  Mr. 
Raymond  brought  her  forward. 

"  Arabella,  I  wish  to  make  you  acquainted  with  a  highly- 
esteemed  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Charles  Burns." 

"I  think  I  must  shake  hands  with  one  so  impressively 
introduced,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  with  her  usual  readi- 
ness. "Besides,  you  appear  to  me  in  the  double  char- 

16* 


!  86  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

acter  of  my  brother's  friend  and  Miss  Lynne's  friend, 
Mr.  Burns." 

Mr.  Burns  said  he  considered  himself  happy  in  being 
so  well  recommended. 

It  turned  out  that  Mr.  Raymond  was  also  a  collegian 
and  a  senior,  and  a  member  of  Mr.  Burns's  law  class. 
They  stood  talking  a  moment, — something  about  the 
route  and  the  train  each  had  taken  to  reach  Crawford, — 
and  Warren  came  up  and  begged  Wilma  and  his  sister  to 
go  with  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  some 
sort  of  amusing  game  was  being  played  creating  a  good 
deal  of  merriment.  Warren  was  already  familiar  with 
most  of  the  company. 

Finding  themselves  alone,  Mr.  Burns  and  Mr.  Raymond 
locked  arms  and  made  a  slow  circuit  of  the  hall.  Neither 
of  them  seemed  to  be  made  of  the  stuff  that  mixes  readily 
with  a  crowd. 

"Is  Miss  Lynne  a  relative  of  yours?"  Mr.  Raymond 
inquired,  not  curiously,  but  by  way  of  showing  a  polite 
interest  in  his  companion's  affairs. 

"  No, — a  friend,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"This  is  a  large  school,  if  these  are  all  students,"  Mr. 
Raymond  remarked. 

"  Yes  ;  and  there  are  some  very  interesting  faces  among 
them,"  Mr.  Burns  returned,  glancing  around  with  the  air 
of  one  whose  judgment  is  mature.  His  eyes  rested  upon 
Miss  Maclvers.  Young  Raymond  also  had  singled  her 
out. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is!"  said  he.  "I  have  been  in- 
troduced to  her,  and  I  believe  I  will  try  to  cultivate  her 
acquaintance  a  little." 

"Now  is  your  opportunity,  then,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

Miss  Maclvers  was  sitting  a  little  apart  and  alone.  He 
turned  aside  and  joined  the  group  where  Wilma  and  Miss 
Raymond  were  standing,  and  Starr  approached  Miss  Mac- 
lvers. 

"  May  I  presume  upon  my  introduction  to  ask  you  to 
take  my  arm?"  said  he,  with  that  gallantry  that  seems  at 
once  so  natural  and  so  graceful  in  the  young ;  and  Miss 
Maclvers  arose. 

"Yes;  it  is  stupid  to  be  sitting  still,"  she  said,  with  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RJC.  ^7 

laugh,  laying  one  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  adjusting  her 
train  with  the  other. 

"Though  this  promenading  is  but  mildly  exciting," 
said  he,  smiling  back  at  her,  their  eyes  on  a  level. 

At  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  Miss  Morris  sat 
watching  them  with  spasms  of  anger.  "  She  has  been 
trying  for  that  all  the  evening,"  she  said  to  herself,  fiercely, 
and  felt  a  bitter  regret  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Burns  who  was 
her  victim.  "  He  would  have  suited  her  quite  as  well  as 
Starr,"  she  said,  without  intending  any  disparagement  of 
Starr. 

Perhaps  she  was  right.  Miss  Maclvers  had  keen  dis- 
crimination, and  though  Mr.  Burns  was  not  strikingly 
handsome,  he  had  a  fine  figure,  an  intellectual  face,  and 
extremely  noble,  dignified  bearing.  Miss  Maclvers  was 
quite  capable  of  setting  him  up  beside  Mr.  Raymond  and 
drawing  the  lines  of  difference  between  them.  "  Not 
quite  so  smooth,  but  has  more  character,  more  energy ; 
will  make  a  better  figure  in  the  world,"  was  the  sum  of 
her  mental  calculation. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Burns,  who  had  little  thought  to  bestow 
upon  anybody  but  Wilma,  said  to  her,  "  Haven't  you  had 
enough  of  this?  Suppose  we  go  and  take  a  walk  down 
these  pretty  streets  of  yours.  It  is  beautiful  out-doors, 
and  it  seems  to  me  it  will  be  pleasanter  walking  alone  by 
moonlight  than  promenading  among  all  these  people  by 
lamplight." 

"So  I  think,"  said  Wilma,  glad  that  he  had  proposed 
it. 

They  went  out  into  the  little  anteroom  where  she  had 
left  her  wrappings.  There  was  no  light  but  the  moon 
shining  in  softly. 

"It  is  beautiful!"  said  Wilma,  glancing  from  the 
window. 

The  town,  snow-enshrouded,  lay  white  and  still  below. 

"Yes,"  said  Charley;  "the  moon  has  on  her  misty 
bridal-veil  to-night,  something  like  my  Wilma  will  wear 
one  of  these  days." 

He  was  helping  her  on  with  her  things, — tying  her 
hood-strings  under  her  chin, — and  he  took  her  round, 
radiant  face  in  his  hands  and  kissed  it. 


1 88  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"You  have  grown  more  beautiful  than  ever,  my  dar- 
ling," he  said. 

"I  beautiful?  How  can  you  say  so  after  coming  out 
from  yonder!"  said  Wilma,  nodding  toward  the  hall,  but 
nevertheless  blushing  with  pleasure. 

Charley  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  are  all  those  to  me?"  he  said.  "You  are  my 
Wilma  ;  so  long  as  I  have  you,  let  the  wide  world  wag  as 
it  will." 

They  went  down  the  long  halls  and  stairways,  dimly 
lighted,  and  through  the  wide  doors  standing  open.  Out- 
side all  was  quiet,  and  only  the  pleasant  sounds  from  above 
came,  subdued,  through  the  closed  windows.  The  white 
snow-crust,  covering  the  ground  and  glimmering  in  the 
soft  light,  was  unbroken  except  by  the  several  distinct 
paths  leading  down  to  the  different  gates  and  hard-beaten 
by  the  tread  of  many  feet. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

"I  FORGOT  to  ask,  Charley,  how  you  happened  to 
come?"  said  Wilma,  after  they  had  got  outside  upon  the 
path,  and  were  walking  slowly  with  arms  interlocked,  both 
feeling  delightful  thrills  of  gladness  at  being  together 
again. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  see  my  Wilma,"  said  he,  looking 
down  and  twining  his  arms  around  her  lovingly.  "  My 
eyes  were  longing  to  behold  her,  my  arms  ached  to  clasp 
her,  my  heart  was  hungry  for  her.  You  see,"  he  added, 
playfully,  "I  can't  get  along  without  you,  my  darling, 
any  more  than  I  can  get  along  without  several  other 
things  that  go  to  make  up  the  sum  of  human  happiness, 
I  will  not  say  human  existence;  we  can  exist,  you  know, 
under  very  adverse  circumstances.  I  possess  a  good  many 
things — you  among  them — that  I  shouldn't  like  to  give 
up ;  but  I  suppose  if  some  unexpected  disaster  were  to 
sweep  them  away  (for  instance,  if  some  other  fellow  were 
to  come  between  you  and  me  and  carry  you  off),  I  should 


HIGH-  WA  TER-  MARK.  !  89 

go  on  citing  and  drinking  and  living  all  the  same.  The 
animal,  you  see,  my  dear,  predominates  to  the  last,  and 
holds  on  to  life  after  the  affections  and  all  the  finer  qual- 
ities of  the  being  are  vanquished." 

He  tried  to  meet  Wilma's  eyes,  but  she  did  not  look 
up.  The  bare  possibility  of  her  ever  being  lost  to  him, 
or  divided  from  him  by  any  of  the  accidents  of  life,  hurt 
her.  She  wanted  to  believe  that  their  relations  to  each 
other  were  like  the  relations  of  the  planets  in  the  uni- 
verse, fixed  and  unalterable.  She  disliked  the  idea  of 
change.  She  wanted  to  believe  in  all  the  old  traditions. 
The  saddest  of  all  things  to  her  was  the  thought  that  any 
life  should  be  built  upon  an  unreality,  or  that  any  one's 
firm  hope  should  be  fixed  upon  a  thing  that  would  never 
be.  And  to  have  Charley  set  up,  even  in  jest,  so  dreadful 
a  possibility, — he  had  a  habit  of  setting  up  possibilities, 
and  of  maintaining  that  the  world  was  full  of  them,  and 
that  no  one  ought  to  be  surprised  at  their  unexpected 
realization  in  whatever  quarter, — was  a  cruel  jar  to  her 
faith.  There  was  no  balm  to  her  in  the  thought  that  his 
existence  would  be  spoiled  without  her,  and  that,  though 
divided  from  her,  he  might  still  be  true  to  her;  if  they 
were  ever  separated,  therein  would  lie  the  utter  ruin  of 
all  happiness  and  joy.  She  could  conceive  of  no  com- 
promise with  a  destiny  that  would  take  him  from  her. 
Nor  is  it  remarkable  that,  without  experience,  she  could 
not  take  into  account  the  thousand  little  attendant  cir- 
cumstances that  at  last  will  make  the  most  aggravated 
sorrow  bearable.  She  had  still  much  of  a  child's  tenacity 
of  affection.  Of  course  Charley  could  not  know  what 
feeling  his  words  stirred  in  her  ;  we  are  such  short-sighted 
mortals,  we  penetrate  such  a  little  way  into  the  soul's 
solitude  of  those  nearest  us !  That  Wilma  should  have 
a  deep  inner  life  of  thought  and  emotion  apart  from  him, 
and  yet  in  which  he  was  held  with  such  strength  of  devo- 
tion, he  did  not  suspect;  and,  being  of  a  rather  playful 
disposition,  he  liked  to  tease  her  sometimes. 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  come  quite  so  soon,"  he  explained, 
as  they  walked  on.  "  I  intended  to  run  down,  by  and  by, 
and  spend  a  day  with  you.  But  yesterday  I  had  a  letter 
from  my  mother,  urging  me  to  come  home.  The  letter 


1 90 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


alarms  me  ;  it  is  very  short  and  written  in  a  feeble  hand. 
Oh,  Wilma,  the  thought  of  losing  my  mother  is  almost 
more  than  I  can  bear  !  You  never  knew  her,  Wilma;  you 
don't  know  what  a  good,  good  mother  she  has  been  to  me. 
She  has  been  an  inspiration  to  me  all  my  life,  leading  me 
onward  and  upward.  And  I  have  been  so  contented 
away  from  her.  I  have  left  her  in  her  lonely  old  age 
with  cruel  thoughtlessness.  How  selfish  we  are,  how 
blindly  we  go  on,  and  deceive  ourselves  into  thinking  we 
are  doing  our  highest  duty  !  I  always  wanted  to  make  the 
most  of  myself  for  my  mother's  sake.  At  least  I  told 
myself  so  ;  and  I  wanted  to  be  worthy  of  her  pride  of 
me  that  always  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  prophecy  in  it 
for  my  splendid  future  which  was  to  be  the  delight  of  her 
old  age.  My  love  for  her  at  the  very  commencement  of 
my  life  was  my  strong  motive-power.  My  wish  to  please 
and  satisfy  her  has  influenced  me  always.  How  we  lose 
sight  of  our  aim  and  miss  it  in  the  very  pursuit  of  it !  It 
is  like  toiling  to  reach  a  certain  goal  and  rinding  at  the 
end  that  the  goal  is  gone, — has  been  removed  out  of  our 
reach.  We  never  think  how  time,  too,  is  rushing  on  and 
may  change  all  things  for  us.  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
marking  out  a  straight  path  in  life  and  gaining  a  direct 
end.  We  trust  too  much  to  the  absoluteness  of  things. 
Time  is  treacherous,  deceitful,  changeable." 

"Oh,  no,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  "don't  say  so.  Time 
gives  us  only  the  present  moment  and  promises  nothing 
more." 

"  In  one  sense,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  But 
the  present  is  not  big  enough  for  a  man  to  live  in.  There 
are  very  few  present  moments  in  a  lifetime  that  satisfy 
us.  We  have  got  to  be  reaching  out,  reaching  out,  though 
we  know  that  at  the  last,  when  we  are  about  to  lay  our 
hands  on  the  thing  we  have  struggled  for,  it  may  be 
snatched  from  us." 

"But,  Charley  dear,"  Wilma  said,  gently,  "don't  you 
ever  think  that  you  are  gaining  something  every  day  that 
you  live  and  work  that  cannot  be  snatched  away  from  you  ? 
Don't  you  think  we  talk  too  much  about  great  ends  and 
aims,  thinking  that  our  lives  are  wasted  unless  we  accom- 
plish them?" 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  I  g  l 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  it  is  true  we  are  gaining  something  for  our- 
selves," said  Charley  ;  "  but  I  was  thinking  of  my  mother 
and  of  how  I  have  deceived  myself  into  believing  I  left 
her  for  her  good,  and  for  the  final  happiness  and  satisfac- 
tion she  would  derive  from  my  making  the  most  of  myself. 
I  begin  to  think  that  through  all  I  have  thought  much 
more  of  myself  than  of  her.  I  ought  to  have  devoted 
my  life  to  her  as  she  has  devoted  hers  to  me." 

"And  do  you  really  think,  Charley,"  Wilma  said, 
"that  she  would  like  to  be  paid  back  in  kind  ?  I  don't 
think  so.  I  believe  you  are  much  more  of  a  comfort  and 
satisfaction  to  her  as  you  are  than  you  would  be  if  you 
had  stayed  with  her  and  devoted  yourself  to  her,  as  you 
say.  I  think  I  know  just  how  a  mother — a  large-hearted 
mother — would  feel  about  that.  Dear  Charley,  I  know 
how  even  /feel  about  it.  I  don't  mind  your  being  away 
from  me  any  more,  knowing  that  you  are  growing  into  a 
great  man.  I  don't  mind  anything,  so  that  you  love  me." 

"No;  you  women  are  such  unselfish  creatures!" 
Charley  exclaimed,  winding  his  arm  around  her  again 
and  drawing  her  close  to  him.  "  Unselfish  and  generous. 
And  how  men  impose  on  your  unselfishness  and  generos- 
ity !  How  many  men  are  skeptical  of  it.  I  thank  God 
that  my  faith  in  womanhood  is  so  firmly  rooted, — through 
my  mother  and  through  you,  my  darling  !" 

"  And  do  you  think  your  faith  would  need  that  posi- 
tive evidence?"  said  Wilma,  looking  up  with  a  smile. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  and  tossing 
back  his  curls.  "  I  am  a  lawyer,  you  know,  and  I  de- 
mand proofs.  My  mother  and  you  are  my  witnesses." 

"And  you  love  us,"  said  Wilma,  "and  it  is  your  love 
that  gives  the  verdict.  If  you  found  us  false,  what  would 
become  of  your  judgment  then  ?" 

"I  shall  not  find  you  false,"  said  he,  "and  so  my 
judgment  will  stand,  strongly  supported  to  the  end.  I 
suppose  one  couldn't  have  a  well-grounded  belief  in  the 
goodness  and  purity  of  womanhood  without  having  known 
some  good  and  pure  women." 

"  Miss  Belmont  argues  differently,"  said  Wilma.  "She 
says  we  must  leave  individuals  entirely  out  of  the  question, 
and  place  our  feet  upon  a  solid  foundation  of  principles. 


192 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK, 


She  says  the  qualities  which  ought  to  make  men  and 
women  do  exist  as  absolutely  as  God  exists.  But  that 
we  ought  not  to  expect  to  find  them,  or  be  disappointed 
at  not  finding  them,  in  the  men  and  women  we  love. 
And,  dear  Charley,"  Wilma  added,  "it  is  so  hard  for 
me  to  do  that ;  it  is  so  hard  for  me  to  see  abstract  things. 
Take  Honor,  Truth,  Goodness, — they  are  all  unreal  to 
me  ;  they  are  all  mere  sentiment,  until  I  fasten  them  to 
something.  I  fasten  them  to  you,  Charley,  and  then  I 
see  and  understand.  Miss  Belmont  says  the  reason  why 
she  would  detach  principle  from  personality  is  because 
human  nature  is  changeable  and  fallible.  But  you  are 
not,  Charley  !"  Clasping  his  arm  suddenly  with  both  her 
little  hands,  and  looking  up  with  a  passionate  earnest- 
ness, startling  to  him,  her  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

"I  hope,  in  God,  not  in  a  way  to  destroy  your  faith 
in  those  things!"  he  said,  fervently.  "You  humble  me, 
Wilma  ;  you  must  not  bound  the  attributes  of  God  by 
the  little  measure  of  man  !" 

"Oh,  I  do  not,"  said  Wilma.  "Cannot  a  man  be 
truthful,  honorable,  noble?" 

"A  man  may  change,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "or,  rather, 
he  may  grow  out  of  one  thing  into  another,  and  so  ap- 
pear to  change.  We  cannot  tell  what  the  future  will 
make  of  us.  Our  promises  to-day  may  not  be  binding 
upon  our  consciences  to-morrow.  Our  own  self  is  a 
mystery  that  we  cannot  unravel — that  we  cannot  vouch 
for.  I  can  imagine  such  a  thing  as  this,  Wilma,  that 
though  I  could  never  love  anything  else  in  the  world  so 
well  as  you,  yet  there  might  be  circumstances  in  which 
I  would  feel  bound  to  give  my  life  to  something  else 
rather  than  to  you,  though  I  have  pledged  it  to  you.  I 
can  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  sincerely  believe  that  no 
such  appalling  duty  will  ever  come  between  us." 

Wilma  winced  again  under  the  dreadful  possibility. 
Simple  absence  from  Charley  had  no  pain  for  her  now, 
as  she  said  ;  but  separation,  division  of  heart,  of  interest, 
of  life,  took  all  life  away. 

"  You  will  not  always  feel  as  you  do  now,  dear,"  Char- 
ley continued.  "  I  am  glad  and  proud  to  embody  your 
ideals — or  principles — for  a  little  while ;  they  will  soon 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


193 


outgrow  me.  By  and  by,  when  your  mind  grows  bigger, 
and  your  wings  are  fledged,  and  your  practical  little  feet 
that  cling  so  desperately  to  tangible  things  let  go  of  earth, 
and  you  soar  up  into  space  and  stand  alone  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  absolute,  your  soul  quickened  to  a  perception 
of  principle  rather  than  example,  unaided  by  men  and 
women  and  the  blush  of  physical  beauty  and  the  music 
that  is  audible  to  the  senses;  seeing  all  goodness,  truth, 
beauty,  with  the  spiritual  vision,  you  will  not  need  to  find 
me  enthroned  upon  the  heights,  exquisite  as  a  rose,  beauti- 
ful as  a  rainbow,  and  mighty  as  an  archangel  to  convince 
yourself  that  these  are  grand  things  in  the  world." 

"Don't  laugh,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  so  appealingly 
that  he  took  the  sweet,  earnest  face  in  his  hands  again, 
and  kissed  it  affectionately. 

"It  is  true,  darling,"  said  he,  smiling  and  shaking  his 
head.  "This  buoyant  thing,  this  soul  that  is  in  you,  and 
which  I  cannot  touch  or  hold,  will  rise  far  above  me  and 
will  find  that  its  Charley  does  not  fill  all  space,  one  of 
these  days.  Do  you  know,  Wilma"  (very  seriously),  "that 
you  would  be  placing  a  heavy  responsibility  upon  me,  in 
what  you  have  just  said,  did  I  not  know  that  you  inevi- 
tably will  soar  above  me, — I  mean  above  the  human  in 
me?  If  I  fall  you  must  not.  I  dislike  that  sort  of  de- 
pendency upon  one  another.  I  would  like  you  to  believe 
in  me,  of  course;  and  I  would  like  you  to  think  as  I  do 
upon  all  great  and  important  questions ;  but  not  because 
I  do.  I  would  like  you  to  harmonize  with  me  and  yet  be 
independent  of  me.  There  is  no  growth  in  us  when  we 
simply  follow  and  imitate,  without  thinking.  It  is  like 
scattering  grain  in  a  soil  so  shallow  that  it  is  thrown  up 
next  day  to  bleach  in  the  sun.  Better  sunk  a  fathom 
under  ground  and  not  a  sprout  appear  for  a  score  of  years. 
I  am  not  alarmed  about  you,  Wilma,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"or  weighted  with  any  great  responsibility  about  you; 
but  do  not  fancy,  darling,  that  I  do  not  appreciate  the 
solemnity  of  my  relation  to  you.  No  man  could  realize 
more  fully  the  preciousness  of  a  woman's  love  given  into 
his  keeping  than  I.  But  I  know  that  you  will  find  your 
way  whether  I  lead  you  or  not.  And  I  love  you  all  the 
more  for  being  able  to  feel  this  confidence  in  you.  By 
i  17 


194 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


the  way,  Wilma,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  your 
Miss  Percy  must  be  rather  a  weak  sort  of  person.  I 
would  not  envy  the  man  that  has  wrecked  her  tiny  boat. 
Of  course  it  was  a  man  !  Has  she  never  told  you  about 
any  false  lover?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Wilma,  a  little  hurt. 

"  I  did  not  see  her,  did  I  ?"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  No  ;  she  went  away  before  you  came." 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  Miss  Belmont.  Your  Mr. 
Ingraham,  Wilma,  is  a  small  tyrant,  who  domineers  over 
you,  and  makes  the  balance  even  by  a  good  deal  of  petting. 
1  suppose,"  he  added,  "  Miss  Belmont  doesn't  patronize 
sociables?" 

"Oh,  yes;  she  was  there  a  little  while.  She  never 
stays  long.  She  says  she  doesn't  think  the  young  folks 
need  her  when  it  comes  to  amusement." 

"  Oh  !  And  all  her  acts  are  mere  matters  of  duty.  I 
like  that  spirit  of  self-importance  !" 

"  Charley  !     What  makes  you  so  sarcastic  ?" 

"Sarcastic,  am  I?  Well,  it  seems  to  me  we  never  cut 
so  ludicrous  a  figure  as  when  we  set  ourselves  up  to  do 
nothing  but  what  has  the  air  of  duty,  and  put  a  value  on 
everything  we  do  and  say,  and  are  fearful  of  spending  our 
worth  upon  an  unworthy  object  or  occasion." 

"You  don't  understand  Miss  Belmont,  Charley,"  said 
Wilma,  firmly.  "Indeed,  I  am  afraid  I  describe  people 
very  poorly,  since  you  get  such  impressions  of  them." 

"There!  now,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Wilma.  I  didn't 
mean  to  offend  you.  Your  descriptions  are  perfect.  I 
am  afraid  the  fault  all  lies  with  me ;  I  suspect  I  am  jealous 
of  your  friends." 

They  had  reached  the  farthest  limit  of  Main  Street, 
the  point  where  it  was  merged  into  the  country  highway, 
and  crossing  over,  went  up  on  the  other  side.  When 
they  got  to  Mrs.  Woods's  gate,  Wilma  stopped  and  Char- 
ley looked  up  at  the  house  and  said  he  meant  to  photo- 
graph it  upon  his  mind,  so  that  in  future  he  could  picture 
her  there,  seated  at  one  of  the  windows.  Wilma  told  him 
which  window  was  hers.  A  naked  jasmine-vine  clambered 
over  it. 

"By  the  way,  Wilma,"  said  he,   "I  have  not  told  you 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


195 


my  errand  yet, — at  least  not  all  of  it.  My  mind  has  been 
so  full  of  it  that  maybe  you  have  guessed  it,  though.  I 
want  to  take  you  home  with  me.  Can  you  spare  me  a 
few  days?" 

Wilma  looked  up  with  a  sudden  leaping  of  joy  in  her 
eyes. 

"Home,  Charley?  Oh,  is  it  possible?  It  is  such  a 
short  vacation  they  did  not  expect  me  to  come  home  this 
time." 

"  We  will  surprise  them,"  said  Charley.  "  Have  you 
never  been  the  least  bit  homesick,  Wilma?  I  could 
never  gather  from  your  letters  that  you  were." 

"  But  I  was  at  first,"  said  Wilma.  "After  I  got  accus- 
tomed to  things  here,  I  wouldn't  let  myself  think  of 
home, — that  is,  in  the  way  of  wishing  myself  there." 

"  You  are  a  little  philosopher,"  said  Charley.  "  Well, 
I  suppose  you  must  go  in  ;  it  is  getting  late.  I  will  come 
for  you  to-morrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock;  the  train 
leaves  at  a  little  past  nine." 

He  went  with  her  up  into  the  porch  and  bade  her 
"good-night,"  and  walked  back  to  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  following  morning,  when  Mr.  Burns  came  to  take 
Wilma  to  the  train,  he  met  a  young  gentleman — Miss 
Maclvers's  escort  of  the  previous  evening  —  at  Mrs. 
Woods's  gate.  He  had  driven  up  in  an  elegant  livery 
sleigh  to  take  that  young  lady  out  riding.  Exchanging 
the  formal  salutations  of  strangers,  they  walked  up  into 
the  little  porch  together.  Mr.  Burns,  being  foremost, 
knocked,  and  Miss  Maclvers,  in  plumes  and  velvets  and 
furs,  opened  the  door,  and  was  a  little  taken  aback  upon 
meeting  his  face  instead  of  Mr.  Haviland's,  and  blushed; 
then  bowed  with  her  usual  superb  grace,  and,  catching 
sight  of  the  higher  department  young  man  over  his 
shoulder,  came  forward  royally,  and  was  escorted  to  the 
sleigh,  with  its  bright  linings  and  robes,  and  whirled  away 


1 9  6  HIGH-  IV A  TER-MARK. 

with  a  joyous  jingling  of  bells,  than  which  nothing  seems 
more  in  keeping  with  youth  and  cold  weather  and  fine 
spirits.  Mr.  Burns  turned  his  head  and  looked  after  her 
as  she  passed  him  and  went  down  the  steps. 

Wilma  coming  to  the  door  to  meet  him,  he  asked, 
"Who  is  that  beautiful  creature?" 

"Why,  that  is  Miss  Maclvers,"  said  Wilma. 

"  Oh,  the  belle  and  beauty  of  Crawford  !  Well,  she 
certainly  deserves  the  title.  Are  you  ready?"  he  asked, 
passing  into  the  study-room;  "we  haven't  much  time. 
There  is  the  hack  already." 

Wilma  hastened  to  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak. 

"  I  have  nothing  but  this  valise  to  take,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while  to  pack  my  trunk." 

"  No,  you  will  be  back  within  a  week,"  said  Charley. 

Home!  home  to  mother,  Fred,  Blanche,  Miss  Barker, 
and  her  quaint  old  friends;  home  to  all  Hazelville,  to 
the  old  church  and  school-house,  and  the  race  and  the 
mill  and  Twin  Pionts.  What  a  thrilling,  thrilling  glad- 
ness to  feel  the  first  rushing  motion  of  the  train,  home- 
ward bound,  after  a  school-girl  absence  of  three  months ! 
I  know  it  is  trite  to  describe  it..  But  how  many,  many 
trite  and  common  things  are  forever  bubbling  up  new  and 
strange  and  sweet  in  young  hearts  ! 

Mr.  Burns  did  not  share  the  feeling.  Though  usually 
buoyant  and  hopeful,  and  determined  to  look  on  the 
bright  side,  he  could  not  shake  off  the  sad  foreboding 
that  his  mother's  letter  had  awakened  in  him.  Whenever 
the  train  stopped  so  that  he  could  talk,  he  told  Wilma  of 
his  childhood  that  had  been  so  tenderly  protected  by  his 
mother's  love.  Things  long  forgotten  came  up  and 
flooded  his  memory,  and  magnified  her  gentleness  and 
goodness  to  him. 

It  was  new  to  Wilma,  and  it  endeared  him  to  her  more 
than  ever.  He  had  always  been  extremely  reserved,  even 
to  her,  regarding  this  side  of  his  life.  She  knew  that 
between  him  and  his  mother  there  was  an  unusual  tender- 
ness, and  so  sacred  that  he  hardly  ever  touched  upon  it. 
She  felt  grateful  that  he  did  so  now  in  his  sad  appre- 
hension. 

It  was  not  many  hours'  ride;  the  distance  was  barely  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


I97 


hundred  miles.  But  there  was  a  change  of  cars  and  some 
delay,  which  they  took  advantage  of  to  get  a  lunch  at  a 
small  station  and  to  walk  about,  the  day  being  pleasant. 

Charley  had  telegraphed  that  they  were  coming,  and 
so  now  at  home  they  were  all  watching  and  waiting.  And 
in  a  darkened  chamber  lay  Charley's  mother  watching 
and  waiting,  and  asking  in  a  faint  voice,  "  Will  he  come 
soon?" 

Two  or  three  women  moving  noislessly  about  answered 
soothingly,  "Yes;  only  be  patient  a  little  while  longer, 
he  will  soon  be  here,"  And  put  something  moist  to  the 
dry,  thin  lips,  and  laid  their  hands  on  the  damp,  wrinkled 
brow,  and  glanced  at  each  other,  shaking  their  heads. 

But  he  came  too  late.  When  he  reached  home  and 
ran  up  from  the  gate  and  laid  his  hand  eagerly  and 
tremblingly  on  the  door-knob,  and  pushed  open  the  door, 
his  mother  was  gone.  For  a  time  he  knew  nothing;  his 
limbs  gave  way,  the  color  left  his  face,  and  he  sank  into 
a  chair  utterly  overcome  by  the  shock. 

By  and  by  he  awoke  to  the  realization  of  his  great 
sorrow,  but  to  nothing  else.  Wilma  and  all  other  things 
were  as  completely  crowded  out  of  his  life  as  though  they 
had  never  been.  He  went  back  to  his  childhood  and 
was  alone  with  his  mother.  He  remembered  nothing  but 
that  he  and  she  were  all  the  world  to  each  other,  and  now 
she  was  gone,  gone.  She  had  been  his  first,  his  only  in- 
centive once,  toward  a  high  career.  When  he  was  a 
little  boy  his  great  ambition  to  be  great  was  to  please  her. 
Latterly,  he  had  lost  sight  of  it,  but  now  he  went  back 
to  it  and  thought  he  had  nothing  to  live  for.  For  now 
she  was  dead.  Oh,  was  she  dead  ?  They  had  told  him 
so,  but  was  it  true?  He  got  up  and  went  into  her  cham- 
ber,— her  pretty  chamber !  No  one  else  was  ever  so 
carefully  neat  and  tasteful  as  his  mother.  There  on  the 
white  bed,  with  her  waving,  silvery  hair  parted  smoothly 
above  her  broad  forehead  which,  in  spite  of  its  wrinkles 
and  its  age  and  the  stamp  of  death  upon  it,  was  very  like 
his  own,  she  lay  rigid  and  still.  He  sank  down  upon  his 
knees  and  covered  up  his  face  and  groaned  aloud,  so  that 
the  women  who  were  busied  about  the  room  left  their 
solemn  work  and  went  out  with  streaming  eyes. 


j 98  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

DEATH  cuts  off  all  the  little  resources  that  other  afflic- 
tions have  of  hope,  or  lingering  expectation,  or  doubt 
even.  There  is  no  extenuation,  no  compromising  with 
this  sorrow,  or  putting  it  off.  It  has  got  to  be  met.  In 
all  its  abruptness,  in  all  its  enormity,  in  all  its  hopeless- 
ness. He  is  dead.  There  is  nothing  beyond  that.  There 
is  the  end  so  far  as  concerns  our  relations  and  intercourse 
with  him  of  whom  this  grave  sentence  is  written.  There 
is  a  final  giving  up  and  putting  away,  out  of  our  lives,  of 
something  that  cannot  be  brought  back.  Perhaps  there 
is  something  merciful  in  the  absoluteness  of  it ;  we  are 
reasonable  creatures,  and  however  sorely  we  are  wounded, 
we  must  and  will  finally  see  the  great  necessity  of  adjust- 
ing ourselves  to  the  irremediable  change.  Nothing  else 
is  so  compulsory.  In  answer  to  all  other  discouragements 
and  sorrows  we  say,  "  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope." 
And  so  we  go  on  through  all  the  wearisome  years  with 
sickened  hearts,  forever  torn  and  forever  bleeding.  Death 
makes  but  one  wound,  and  when  it  is  healed  it  never 
reopens. 

Charley's  mother  was  dead.  The  sad  rites  and  cere- 
monies were  all  over,  and  a  new  snow  had  covered  up 
the  new  grave,  and  Charley  sat  with  Wilma  in  Mrs. 
Lynne's  little  parlor.  It  was  hard  for  him,  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  it. 

"There  is  no  use,"  he  said,  again  and  again,  with  a 
burst  of  tears.  "I  can't  give  her  up.  It  tears  my  life 
up  by  the  roots.  Oh,  Wilma,  there  is  something  so  ter- 
rible in  this  thing  death.  It  is  such  a  fatal,  final  thing. 
It  is  such  a  destroyer  of  one's  hopes  and  plans  and  am- 
bitions. It  takes  all  the  zest  out  of  life.  It  sickens  me. 
I  hate  the  sight  of  books  and  the  thought  of  school. 
Everything  seems  so  empty,  living  and  working  so  use-- 
less. What  is  life  anyhow?  What  is  the  final  end  to  be 
gained  by  all  this  striving?  My  mother  lived  and  labored 
and  suffered  for  sixty  years.  And  this  is  the  end.  I  do 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  1 99 

not  say  her  life  is  wasted ;  her  best  years  were  given  to 
help  and  comfort  others  who,  themselves,  are  long  since 
dead.  But  it  seems  to  me  a  faithful  life  of  sixty  years  is 
worth  some  permanent  good  thing." 

"Dear  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  gently,  "does  not  your 
mother's  life  go  on  in  you?  And  will  not  your  actions, 
inspired  first  by  her,  be  a  sort  of  reward  to  her?  Per- 
haps nothing  is  really  permanent  in  this  world.  But  lives 
may  be  good  while  they  last,  and  running  on  into  other 
lives  make  a  continuous  good,  and  the  world  grows  better. 
Surely,  Charley,  from  the  grave  where  your  mother  lays 
down  her  work  you  can  take  it  up  and  carry  it  forward. 
Is  not  that  a  beautiful  thought?" 

"You  are  a  good  little  comforter,  Wilma,"  Charley 
said.  "  What  is  there,  after  all,  to  do  but  go  on  !  Per- 
haps it  is  enough  simply  to  help  each  other,  even  though 
man's  beginning  and  end  are  centred  in  this  poor,  fleet- 
ing earth.  That  is  a  sad  view  to  take  of  life,  is  it  not? 
We  can  hardly  go  about  with  cheerful  faces  and  hopeful 
hearts,  thinking  that  this  is  all !  And  yet,  who  knows? 
Oh,  Wilma!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  coming  and  seat- 
ing himself  beside  her  and  taking  her  hand,  "  you  are 
all  that  is  left  to  me  now.  I  have  made  very  few  friend- 
ships. I  have  not  cared  to  make  any.  Do  you  know  I 
am  tempted,  sometimes,  to  take  you  and  go  away  to  some 
sunny  clime  and  try  to  forget  this  busy,  struggling  life 
that,  after  all,  only  ends  in  death  !  Why  should  we  hurry 
and  fret  ?  Why  not  drift  as  peacefully  down  the  stream 
as  we  can,  since  the  end  is  the  same  ?" 

"  We  cannot,  Charley, — we  cannot  go  away  and  for- 
get," said  Wilma.  "It  makes  no  difference  where  we 
are ;  we  carry  our  own  little  world  with  us  everywhere. 
Besides,  it  is  not  right, — is  it,  dear  Charley,  to  turn  aside 
from  the  path  we  have  marked  out  for  ourselves,  and 
which  our  friends  have  marked  out  for  us,  in  our  calmest 
and  wisest  moments?" 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  said  he.  "  I  talk  at  random.  I  am  not 
myself.  Let  us  go  and  walk  ;  or,  stay,  the  snow  is  too 
deep  for  you  ;  I  will  go  myself." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  greatcoat  hurriedly ;  and  his 
heart  ached  when  he  remembered  how  many,  many  times 


200  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

in  such  weather  his  mother  had  cautioned  him  to  wrap 
his  scarf  around  his  neck  and  keep  himself  warm. 

"  Poor  mother, — poor,  poor  mother  !"  he  said,  with  a 
groan,  and  went  out. 

He  set  his  face  against  the  north  wind  and  walked 
briskly  several  miles  into  the  country.  When  he  came 
back  in  the  edge  of  the  evening,  with  ruddy  cheeks  and 
a  keen  appetite,  the  morbidness  of  his  sorrow  was  gone, 
though  it  was  many  months  before  the  conscious  aching 
went  out  of  his  sorely-wounded  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  spring  following  the  death  of  Mr.  Burns's  mother, 
Mrs.  Woods's  boarders  were  all  back  in  their  old  places, 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Gray,  who  had  "gone  West." 
His  place  was  taken  by  a  Mr.  Langworthy,  a  higher  de- 
partment student. 

One  afternoon,  when  Wilma  had  finished  her  recita- 
tions at  the  academy,  she  got  permission  to  leave  the 
building  and  go  down  to  see  Miss  Percy,  who  was  again  an 
invalid  ;  Mr.  Ingraham  always  being  more  than  willing 
to  grant  such  permission.  When  she  came  back  at  tea- 
time,  Miss  Raymond  met  her  with  the  delightful  informa- 
tion that  to-morrow  was  May-day,  and  Mr.  Ingraham  had 
granted  the  school  (upon  petition)  a  holiday  They  were 
to  go  into  the  woods,  "to  those  hills  away  over  east  of 
town,"  Miss  Raymond  said,  "which  look  so  beautiful  in 
the  distance.  Mr.  Ingraham  says  there  is  a  stone-quarry 
there,  and  we  will  have  a  chance  to  hunt  fossils.  Then 
there  is  Miss  Belmont's  botany  class. V 

"Oh,  do  you  suppose  there  are  any  flowers?"  Wilma 
asked.  "  Maybe  I  can  get  some  for  Miss  Percy.  She  was 
wishing  for  some  wild-flowers  to-day." 

"  She  is  a  wild-flower  herself,"  said  Miss  Raymond. 
"You  are  always  thinking  of  her,  Wilma,  though  I  don't 
know  as  we  should  quarrel  with  her  about  that ;  she  has 
few  enough  to  think  of  her,  poor  thing.  But  it  is  her 


HIGH-WATER-MARK:.  2OI 

own  fault.  I  have  put  forth  my  best  efforts  to  be  agree- 
able to  her,  and  she  repulses  me  continually.  I  should 
think  she  had  no  taste  or  penetration  whatever,  if  she 
didn't  like  you ;  that  one  spark  of  discrimination  re- 
deems her  in  the  eyes  of  your  friend  Arabella,  my  dear; 
and  I  am  constrained  on  that  account  to  be  civil  to  her 
still." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Wilma,  laughing. 

Everybody  was  jubilant  over  the  holiday  plan  ;  even 
Miss  Maclvers  discussed  it  enthusiastically  with  young 
Langworthy,  who  was  trying  to  eclipse  Mr.  Haviland  in 
her  regard. 

Early  in  the  morning,  before  it  was  time  to  start,  Wilma 
ran  down  to  see  Miss  Percy  again.  She  found  her  much 
better,  though  looking  very  fragile  and  delicate,  and  pro- 
portionately lovely.  Her  complexion  was  never  a  sickly 
pallor,  but  a  clear,  beautiful  transparency;  and  her  large, 
bright  eyes  were  unfathomably  blue  and  deep.  Her  pretty 
silken  hair  curled  about  her  white  neck  and  forehead  in 
delicate  little  ringlets,  and  was  loosely  caught  up  at  the 
back.  There  was  a  peculiarly  happy  and  childlike  expres- 
sion upon  her  face  that  only  appeared  at  rare  intervals — 
when  she  was  free  from  bodily  pain  and  forgot,  moment- 
arily, her  mental  suffering. 

"You  see  I  am  much  improved,  Wilma,"  she  said, 
cheerfully;  "I  am  going  to  get  up  to-day.  How  is  it 
out-doors?" 

"  Beautiful !"  said  Wilma;  "and  the  birds  are  singing 
among  the  trees  as  I  have  not  heard  them  sing  before  this 
spring." 

"Open  the  shutters,  please,"  said  Miss  Percy;  "you 
have  no  idea  how  I  long  for  summer  skies.  I  have  spent 
a  great  part  of  my  life  in  Florida,  and  I  hate  these  cold 
Northern  winters." 

Wilma  put  by  the  .crimson  curtains  and  threw  back  the 
blinds,  and  let  in  the  fragrant  breath  and  sunshine  of  May. 
Away  beyond  were  the  woods  just  budding  into  delicate 
greenness,  and  all  things  seemed  bent  upon  a  resurrection 
of  freshness  and  beauty,  such  as  would  blot  out  even  the 
remembrance  of  last  year's  decay.  The  very  air  had  a 
strength  of  life  and  buoyancy  that  lifted  the  spirit  heaven- 
i* 


202  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

ward  as  if  borne  on  invisible  wings.  Wilma  turned  from 
the  window  intending  to  speak  of  the  holiday.  Miss 
Percy  was  opening  her  lips  to  say,  "  Is  this  Friday  ?  Yes ; 
I  recollect.  I  wish  it  were  Saturday,  so  that  you  could 
stay  with  me  all  day." 

A  quick  thought  shot  through  Wilma's  mind,  and  its 
shadow  crossed  her  face. 

Miss  Percy  had  keen  perceptions. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  she  asked,  smiling. 
"One  can  see  the  images  that  pass  behind  your  transpa- 
rent face,  but  cannot  wholly  define  them." 

"  I  was  thinking  whether  I  might  not  stay  with  you 
anyhow,"  said  Wilma,  blushing. 

"Do  you  think  your  preceptress" — curling  her  lip — 
"would  give  you  permission?" 

"Dear  Miss  Percy,  Miss  Belmont  would  give  me  per- 
mission to  do  anything  that  would  be  a  pleasure  or  a  ben- 
efit to  you!"  said  Wilma,  earnestly.  "Shall  I  go  and 
ask  her  if  I  may  stay  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  will  be  so  kind,"  she  said.  "  The  days 
are  so  long,  and  it  kills  me  to  stay  here  alone ;  and  I  do 
not  care  to  have  the  Pettibones  sit  with  me,  they  are  so 
stupid." 

Wilma  tied  her  hat-strings  and  started  down-stairs. 
Miss  Percy  called  to  her,  "  Will  you  please  tell  them  to 
send  Bridget  up  here?  I  hate  these  country  houses  with 
no  bells." 

Wilma  tapped  at  the  sitting-room  door,  and  was  bade  to 
"come  in." 

"  Miss  Percy,"  she  began,  advancing  the  name  as  soon 
as  she  opened  the  door,  as  a  sort  of  apology  for  her  in- 
trusion,— for  she  stood  in  considerable  awe  of  the  aristo- 
cratic Pettibones, — "  says,  if  you  please,  she  would  like 
to  have  Bridget  sent  up  to  her." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  Miss  Ella  Pettibone,  breaking 
into  a  laugh,  and  looking  across  at  her  mother  (they  were 
the  only  occupants  of  the  room),  "  that  Miss  Percy  sends 
so  courteous  a  request  ?  Or  are  we  indebted  to  you,  miss, 
for  the  politeness?" 

Wilma  blushed,  but  did  not  reply. 

"You  just   step  out  into  the  kitchen   and   speak  to 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


203 


Bridget,  will  you?"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  good-naturedly, 
nodding  toward  a  side  door. 

Wilma  complied,  and  passed  through  a  large  dining- 
room,  and  opened  another  door  which  let  her  into  Bridget's 
domain.  That  worthy  domestic  was  busy  washing  up  the 
breakfast  dishes.  Wilma  had  already  made  her  acquaint- 
ance in  Miss  Percy's  room.  She  delivered  her  message, 
and  Bridget  straightway  wiped  her  hands  and  prepared  to 
go  up-stairs. 

"The  purty  dear!"  she  ejaculated.  "It's  her  break- 
fast she'll  be  afther  wantin'  now,  I  suppose.  Though  it's 
precious  little  she'll  ate  when  she  gits  it." 

Wilma  went  out  the  back  way  and  hurried  home.  Miss 
Raymond  was  waiting  for  her;  the  others  had  all  gone  up 
to  the  academy,  from  whence  they  were  to  start. 

"You  are  all  ready,  are  you  not,  Wilma?"  she  asked, 
meeting  her  in  the  porch.  "  We  must  hurry  or  we  shall 
be  late."  Wilma  had  not  thought  of  anybody's  disap- 
pointment but  her  own. 

"  I  am  not  going,"  she  said,  bravely. 

"Wilma!" 

"  I  am  going  back  to  stay  with  Miss  Percy.  I  came  to 
tell  you." 

It  was  hard  for  her  that  Miss  Raymond  reproached  her 
so  with  her  eyes,  and  said  no  word.  Great  tear-drops 
welled  up  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  went  on  hur- 
riedly, her  lips  trembling,  "She  is  sick,  you  know,  and 
lies  there  all  alone;  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  her. 
And  so  I  told  her  I  would  stay  with  her." 

"And  she  was  selfish  enough  to  keep  you  !"  said  Miss 
Raymond,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  She  doesn't  know  there  is  a  holiday. 
She  would  not  have  consented  if  she  had  known." 

"  Then  I  shall  go  and  tell  her,  and  make  her  release 
you." 

"No,  no!"  Wilma  laid  her  hand  upon  her  arm. 
"She  would  be  angry  with  me;  you  can't  understand 
how  she  would  feel  about  it." 

"  Do  you  understand  howl  feel  about  it?"  said  Miss 
Raymond,  coldly.  "You  knew  I  depended  on  you  to- 
day, the  other  girls  are  all  gone." 


204 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


"Oh,  what  shall  I  do  !"  said  Wilma,  deeply  distressed. 
"  Miss  Percy  is  sick  and  weak  ;  she  can't  reason  as  stronger 
people  do.  I  depended  on  you, — on  your  kind  good 
nature,  not  to  be  hurt  and  offended  ;  and  you  are  hurt  and 
offended." 

"  I  am  a  wicked  wretch  !"  said  Miss  Raymond,  throw- 
ing her  arms  around  Wihna's  neck.  "You  depended  on 
me,  and  I  have  shown  myself  small  and  mean.  As  though 
it  were  not  hard  enough  for  you  to  give  up  your  holiday, 
without  my  making  it  harder." 

"Yonder  comes  Miss  Belmont,"  said  Wilma;  "let  us 
run  across  the  street ;  you  can  go  up  to  the  academy  with 
her." 

They  crossed  over  and  met  Miss  Belmont  on  the  side- 
walk. 

"Don't  you  think,  Miss  Belmont,"  said  Miss  Ray- 
mond, "that  Wilma  can't  go!  She  has  to  stay  with 
Miss  Percy." 

"Oh,  no;  don't  say  it  in  that  way,"  said  Wilma.  "I 
don't  have  to  stay.  I  offered  to  stay  of  my  own  accord. 
And  it  seems  treacherous  and  deceitful  in  me  to  want  to 
go  all  the  time  and  not  to  tell  her." 

"You  did  not  tell  her?"  said  Miss  Belmont,  raising 
her  eyebrows. 

"No,"  said  Wilma;  "she  wouldn't  have  listened  to 
my  staying  if  I  had  told  her." 

"  But  do  you  think  it  was  quite  right,  dear,  to  place 
her  under  such  an  obligation  to  you  without  her  knowing 
it  ?  She  is  so  proud  and  sensitive,  I  am  afraid  she  would 
hardly  take  it  as  a  kindness." 

Wilma  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  way.  "  What  shall 
I  do?"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  cannot  go 
back  and  tell  her  now." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  taking  her  hand  and  hold- 
ing it  kindly ;  "  you  cannot  go  back  and  tell  her  now." 

Wilma,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  withdrew  her  hand 
hurriedly,  smiled,  and  said  "good-by,"  and  ran  away 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Belmont.  "  What  would 
she  not  do  for  Miss  Percy  ?" 

"What  would  she  not  do  for  anybody?"   said  Miss 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


205 


Raymond.  "She  is  the  most  generous,  unselfish  little 
creature  I  ever  knew.  I  hope  Miss  Percy  appreciates 
her." 

"  Whether  she  does  or  not,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  "  Wil- 
ma's  own  good  heart  rewards  her ;  she  never  will  suffer 
the  bitterest  pains  that  mortals  can  feel." 

Wilma  gave  herself  no  time  for  regret,  but  hurried  back 
to  Miss  Percy.  She  ran  lightly  up-stairs  and  opened  the 
door  and  found  her — she  had  been  up  and  got  herself 
dressed  in  some  soft,  gray  fabric — lying  across  the  bed 
asleep.  Sleeping  like  a  little  child,  with  her  lips  parted 
and  wreathed  with  a  smile.  Wilma  went  softly  to  the 
window  and  sat  down  on  a  low  ottoman,  and  looked 
away  to  the  hills  where  the  school  was  going  for  its  holi- 
day. Her  tumultuous  thoughts  and  heart-throbbings  were 
greatly  at  variance  with  the  stillness  of  Miss  Percy's  room. 
By  and  by,  her  gaze  dropped  into  the  street  back  of  the 
Pettibone  premises,  and  there  went  the  school,  teachers 
and  students,  in  all  the  happy  abandon  of  holiday  free- 
dom. There  were  so  many  voices  talking  and  laughing 
that  the  distant  murmur  of  them  floated  up  to  her  without 
carrying  any  intelligible  words.  Most  of  the  young  men 
bore  lunch-baskets.  Mr.  Ingraham,  with  his  tall  hat,  was 
surrounded,  as  usual,  by  half  a  dozen  merry  girls,  who 
had  conspired  together  to  keep  off  Mrs.  Bramen.  Mrs. 
Bramen  was  therefore  reduced  to  the  escort  of  one  of  the 
uncomely  professors,  which,  however,  as  a  polite  woman, 
she  accepted  with  grace.  Mr.  Langworthy  had  outgen- 
eraled Haviland,  and  walked  beside  Miss  Maclvers  and 
carried  her  parasol.  Haviland,  who  was  gentlemanly 
and  not  resentful,  accepted  the  situation  and  dropped 
back  with  Miss  Belmont  and  Miss  Raymond,  who  still 
kept  together.  Once  Wilma  saw  them  glance  up  at  the 
window  where  she  sat,  and  was  tempted  to  raise  the  sash 
and  flutter  her  handkerchief.  Changing  her  mind,  she 
drew  back  a  little  so  that  they  might  not  see  her.  In  a 
few  moments  they  had  turned  down  another  street  and 
passed  out  of  sight ;  and  Wilma,  sitting  alone  in  the 
silence,  soon  lost  all  regret  and  recollection  of  them,  in 
a  long,  delightful  revery,  such  as  she  used  frequently  to 
indulge  in  before  the  era  of  these  busy  school-days.  She 

18 


206  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

had  no  conception  of  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed 
when  Miss  Percy  called  to  her. 

"Wilma?  Why,  how  long  I  have  slept.  I  didn't 
mean  to  go  to  sleep.  I  was  so  tired  after  dressing  myself 
that  I  thought  I  would  lie  down  and  rest.  Will  you  look 
at  my  watch  on  the  bureau,  please,  and  see  what  time  it 
is?" 

Wilma  took  the  little  jewelled  watch  off  its  velvet 
cushion,  and  said  it  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

"  So  late?"  said  Miss  Percy.  "  Then  our  carriage  will 
soon  be  here.  Do  you  know,  I  have  ordered  a  carriage 
for  you  and  me ;  we  are  going  to  have  a  holiday.  I  would 
always  rather  walk  than  ride,  but  I  have  not  strength 
enough  to  walk  now." 

Wilma's  face  flushed  guiltily. 

"Bridget  will  bring  us  up  some  lunch,"  Miss  Percy 
continued.  "I  think  I  hear  her  coming  up  the  back 
stairs  now." 

She  walked  across  the  room  and  opened  the  door ;  and 
Bridget,  shuffling  along  the  hall  in  her  working  slippers, 
came  in  with  a  great  tray  of  dainties,  which  she  set  upon 
a  little  table  that  she  had  previously  cleared  of  books  and 
various  articles  not  rightfully  belonging  to  it ;  Miss  Percy 
having  rather  careless  habits. 

"An*  ye  think  ye  will  go  for  the  ride,  do  ye,  ma'am?" 
she  asked. 

"Certainly,  Bridget,"  said  Miss  Percy,  smilingly. 

"Mistress  Pettibone  thinks  it's  a  great  risk,  indacle." 

"Oho!"  laughed  Miss  Percy.  "A  great  risk.  Tell 
Mrs.  Pettibone  it  will  be  a  great  benefit." 

"Well,  cud  ye  think  o'  anything  more  as  I  cud  get  for 
ye  now?"  Bridget  asked,  with  her  hands  on  her  hips, 
surveying  the  table. 

"Oh,  no;  you  have  thought  of  everything  —  and 
more  than  I  should  have  thought  of,  Bridget.  Thank 
you,"  said  Miss  Percy.  She  was  very  kind  and  gracious 
to  Bridget ;  she  was  altogether  good-natured  and  amiable 
to-day,  and  Wilma  was  charmed  with  her;  and  would 
have  been  happy,  but  for  the  generous  deception  she  had 
practised  upon  her.  Bridget  said  she  must  go  clown  and 
spread  the  luncheon  for  the  family.  In  less  than  half  an 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  207 

hour  she  came  hurrying  back  again  to  say  that  the  carriage 
was  waiting.  Miss  Percy  wrapped  herself  up  carefully, 
and  Bridget  half  carried  her  clown  the  stairs  and  saw  her 
comfortably  seated  among  the  cushions,  with  Wilma  be- 
side her;  and  then  stood  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand 
to  watch  them  off. 

Away  they  went,  whirling  up  the  long  main  street, 
smoothly  graded,  past  all  the  beautiful  houses  with  their 
green  yards  and  budding  shrubbery.  The  sun  shone  and 
the  birds  sang,  and  the  wind  blew  soft  and  warm  from  the 
South.  The  woods  were  getting  green,  the  lilac  buds  were 
swelling,  and  the  wild  plum  and  crab-apple  trees  were 
blossoming  out  in  delicate  pink  and  white.  There  was 
beauty  and  fragrance  and  gladsomeness  everywhere.  They 
splashed  through  a  shallow,  clear  little  stream  with  a  peb- 
bly bottom  and  clean,  white,  sandy  borders,  and  scared 
the  birds  twittering  in  the  bushes  ;  and  Wilma  put  out  her 
hand  and  caught  it  full  of  white,  sweet-scented  blossoms 
and  gave  a  spray  to  Miss  Percy,  and  scattered  the  tiny 
leaves  like  snow-flakes  over  the  scarlet  lap-robe.  They 
came  to  cross-roads  and  the  driver  called  back, — 

"  Which  way  now?" 

"Oh,  no  matter,"  said  Miss  Percy.  "The  road  to 
the  right  looks  rather  the  more  inviting,  doesn't  it, 
Wilma?" 

"Yes;  it  is  the  woodiest"  said  Wilma,  leaning  out. 

They  turned  down  a  long,  green  lane  with  farms  and 
farm-houses  and  abundant  shade-trees  upon  either  side  of 
it.  Men  were  ploughing  and  women  making  gardens  all 
along.  From  the  lane  they  passed  into  a  winding  road 
through  a  stretch  of  woods,  and  going  for  some  distance 
in  a  southerly  direction,  Miss  Percy  leaned  out  of  the 
carriage  and  looked  away  to  the  left,  where  there  was  a 
long  line  of  hills  stretching  away  in  the  distance. 

"  Look  yonder,  Wilma,  there's  something  waving  there 
on  the  brow  of  that  hill,"  she  said.  "It  looks  like  a 
flag." 

"It  is  a  flag,"  said  Wilma,  "and  people  are  moving 
about.  I  wonder oh  !  it's  the  school." 

"The  what?"  said  Miss  Percy. 

"Why,  it's  May-day,"  said  Wilma,  in  confusion.  Miss 


208  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Percy  looked  at  her  so  that  she  was  bound  to  explain. 
"  Mr.  Ingraham  gave  the  school  a  holiday." 

"And  why  did  not  you  go?" 

Wilma  was  silent. 

"  You  thought  you  would  be  self-denying,  and  stay  with 
me?" 

Miss  Percy's  blue  eyes  dilated,  and  her  red  lips  curled 
scornfully. 

"  I  don't  demand  any  sacrifices,  Miss  Lynne.  I  will  not 
accept  them." 

"Oh,  Miss  Percy!"  said  Wilma,  inexpressibly  pained. 
"  Pray,  don't  be  offended.  I  wanted  to  stay  with  you.  I 
would  rather  a  thousand  times  please  you  than  please 
myself." 

Miss  Percy,  leaning  out,  called  to  the  driver,  and 
asked  if  there  were  a  road  leading  up  to  the  hill  where 
they  saw  the  flag  waving. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  he,  pulling  up;  "there's  a  road  t'other 
side  o'  the  hill,  windin'  up  in  there  som'ers." 

"Find  it,  and  drive  up  there,"  said  Miss  Percy,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  seat  again. 

Wilma,  shrinking  into  her  corner,  was  silent,  feeling 
crushed  and  miserable.  But  yet,  in  all  her  little  troubles 
(how  little  they  would  look  in  the  breadth  of  later  expe- 
rience, and  yet  how  stinging  they  were  then!)  Wilma 
had  one  infallible  comfort.  It  was  Charley.  The  thought 
of  him  brought  always  and  ever  a  sweet,  consoling  balm. 
How  deeply  she  could  trust  in  him,  how  securely  lean 
upon  him  !  He  loved  her;  he  was  never,  never  unkind 
to  her.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  but  they  were  tears 
of  tenderness  as  much  as  of  grief. 

Suddenly  Miss  Percy  exclaimed, — to  Wilma's  unbounded 
relief, — "Look  yonder,  Wilma!  Is  not  that  Miss  Ray- 
mond's brother?" 

Wilma  looked  and  recognized  "  Waddy"  approaching 
from  another  road  on  horseback. 

"Ho!"  said  he,  drawing  up  alongside.  "Why,  is  it 
you,  Miss  Lynne?"  lifting  his  hat,  with  a  smile.  "I  be- 
lieve I  have  lost  my  way,"  he  continued.  "I  am  hunt- 
ing Crawford  Academy ;  they  told  me  it  was  out  in  the 
country  indulging  in  a.  fete  champetre  to-day.  I  saw  a  flag 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


209 


waving  before  I  got  into  the  woods,  but  I  have  lost  it  now, 
and  don't  know  exactly  where  to  go." 

"Keep  right  along  'ith  us;  we'll  come  'thin  sight  of 
'em  purty  soon,"  said  Miss  Percy's  driver. 

"Thank  you  !"  Warren  returned,  and  said  to  Wilma, 
"Then  you  are  bound  for  the  picnic,  too?" 

"No,  I  think  we  are  too  late  for  that,"  said  Wilma; 
"but  we  are  going  to  drive  up  there." 

She  presented  Warren  to  Miss  Percy,  who  bowed,  but 
could  not  be  induced  to  talk,  though  Warren  appealed 
to  her  many  times  with  his  bright,  admiring  eyes  as  he 
rode  along  beside  the  carriage.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
came  to  the  scene  of  rural  festivity,  and  Miss  Raymond 
came  flying  up,  overjoyed  to  meet  her  brother. 

"And  you,  Wilma  I"  she  exclaimed.  "Is  it  possible? 
You  sly  little  thing,  to  think  of  your  getting  us  all  off, 
trudging  on  foot  through  the  heat  and  dust,  and  then  fol- 
lowing in  this  magnificent  style  !"  A  look  in  Wilma's 
face  checked  her,  and  she  added,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come  !  Hasn't  the  day  been  fine?  How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Percy?"  she  said,  her  manner  taking  an  unconscious  touch 
of  formality. 

"I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Percy,  coldly. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  turning  to  Wilma 
again,  after  looking  around  and  discovering  that  her  brother 
was  conversing  very  earnestly  with  Nellie  Beach,  "  we  are 
talking  of  going  home  already.  We  have  gathered  all 
the  flowers  we  could  find  and  all  the  petrified  remains  we 
can  carry,  and  oh,  you  don't  know  how  tired  we  are  ! 
Miss  Belmont  has  sick  headache,  too,  and  is  hardly  able 
to  stand." 

Wilma  glanced  at  Miss  Percy,  who,  without  looking  at 
her,  said  to  Miss  Raymond,  "  If  Miss  Lynne  wishes  to 
walk  back  with  you,  Miss  Belmont  can  have  her  place  in 
the  carriage." 

Wilma  arose  gladly,  and  Warren  came  up  and  helped 
her  out.  She  and  Miss  Raymond  went  to  hunt  up  Miss 
Belmont,  whom  they  found  sitting  under  a  tree,  leaning 
her  head  against  its  trunk,  and  looking  very  white  and 
sick. 

"Ah,  so  you  came  after  all,  did  you,  dear?"  she  said, 
1 8* 


2 1  o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

smiling  faintly  and  pressing  Wilma's  hand.  "  How  did 
it  happen?" 

"  Miss  Percy  got  a  carriage  for  us  to  take  a  ride.  When 
we  got  out  of  town  she  saw  the  flag  waving  here,  and  I 
had  to  explain.  She  is  very  much  offended,"  said  Wilma. 

"Well,  don't  grieve,  child,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  "it 
will  all  come  right ;  Miss  Percy  is  impulsive.  Leave  it  to 
time  and  your  own  sweet  faithfulness." 

Miss  Raymond  had  gone  to  fetch  Miss  Belmont's  hat 
and  parasol.  Wilma  could  not  tell  these  things  to  her, 
because  her  affection  for  herself  would  bias  her  judgment. 
But  Miss  Belmont  was  broad  enough  to  take  in  every- 
thing and  do  justice  to  both  Miss  Percy  and  herself. 
When  Miss  Raymond  came  back,  Miss  Belmont  got  up 
and  walked  slowly  to  the  carriage.  As  it  rolled  away, 
she  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes,  being  too  sick  to 
talk,  except  to  thank  Miss  Percy  for  her  kindness. 

The  students  and  professors,  with  one  impulse,  began 
to  gather  up  their  baskets  and  other  belongings,  and  set 
their  faces  homeward  in  clusters  of  two,  and  three,  and 
half  a  dozen.  Warren  threw  his  horse's  bridle  over  his 
arm  and  walked  with  Nellie  Beach,  and  Miss  Raymond 
and  Wilma  followed  at  a  little  distance. 


THIRD  BOOK. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

I  HAVE  no  desire  to  connect  this  history  with  the  his- 
tory of  the  Great  Rebellion,  inasmuch  as  the  latter  has 
been,  already,  the  groundwork  of  so  much  romance. 
Inasmuch,  also,  as  that  nothing  which  is  written  can  equal 
in  interest  and  intensity  what  was  the  common  experience 
of  all  in  those  sad  times.  But  in  the  beginning  of  Wil- 
ma's  second  school  year  civil  war  began  to  be  loudly 
talked  of,  and  I  am  obliged  to  touch  upon  it  in  so  far  as 
it  concerns  the  lives  of  personages  in  this  narrative. 
Wilma's  first  serious  consideration  of  it  came  about  through 
Charley's  letters,  which  by  rapid  degrees  took  a  high  tone 
of  patriotism,  and  inspired  her  with — not  so  much  enthu- 
siasm as  dread  of  war.  Starr  Raymond  wrote  gravely  to 
his  sister,  and  Warren  declared  himself  ready  to  enlist 
under  the  first  banner  hoisted,  and  at  the  tap  of  the  first 
drum.  Suddenly,  as  we  all  remember  (for  great  shocks 
come  suddenly,  however  long  anticipated),  it  came, — the 
call  to  arms,  the  quick  response. 

Mr.  Langworthy  got  into  the  habit  of  reading  the  daily 
papers  aloud  of  an  evening,  the  boarders  being  all  seated 
around  the  study-table  anxious  to  hear.  One  evening  he 
began  aji  account  of  a  thrilling  volunteer  speech  made  by  a 
famous  young  attorney  at  the  capital.  "At  the  close  of 
which,"  ran  the  paragraph,  "one  hundred  young  men, 
the  flower  of  the  city, — chiefly  from  the  senior  class  and 
law  department  of  the  university, — headed  by  the  talented 
and  promising  Charles  Burns,  stepped  out  of  the  ranks 
of  scholarship  and  entered  the  ranks  of  volunteers.  It 
was  a  thrilling  scene.  The  meeting  was  held  in  the  large 


2 1 2  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK, 

assembly-room,  which  was  densely  crowded.  Enthusiasm 
mounted  to  the  highest  pitch.  Men  cheered,  women 
fainted  and  were  carried  from  the  building.  The  elo- 
quent recruiter  was  himself  elected  captain,  and  Mr.  Burns 
first  lieutenant  of  the  splendid  company." 

As  Mr.  Langworthy,  with  kindling  eyes,  read  the  glowing 
account,  Wilma,  at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  sat  as  if 
turned  to  stone,  her  eyes  blank  and  staring,  her  lips  com- 
pressed and  bloodless. 

"Wilma!"  Miss  Raymond  exclaimed,  affrightedly. 

The  exclamation  aroused  her,  and  she  started  up  with 
a  wild  look  and  cry,  and  ran  toward  her  bedroom  door. 
The  other  young  ladies  staring  at  one  another  blankly, 
arose,  after  a  moment,  with  one  impulse  and  followed  her. 
The  young  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  ready  for  any  emer- 
gency, but  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

"Is  it  a  fit?"  Miss  Allen  had  asked,  and  Liebenwald 
caught  at  the  idea  and  looked  to  his  companion. 

"Go  for  a  doctor?" 

Langworthy  shook  his  head.  "Wait  and  see,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Wilma,  dear  Wilma,  what  is  it,  what  is  the  matter?" 
Miss  Raymond  cried,  throwing  her  arms  around  her. 

Wilma  had  taken  down  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  was  trying 
with  trembling  hands  to  put  them  on. 

"  Charley  !     Charley  has  gone  to  the  war  !"  she  said. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Wilma,  dear?  You 
cannot  go  to  him,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  persuasively. 

"No,  no.  But  he  must  have  written ;  he  wouldn't  leave 
me  to  find  out  in  this  cruel  way.  I  must  go  to  the  post- 
office  ;  it's  raining  and  no  one  has  been  there  to-night." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  exclaimed  Miss  Allen,  in  a  whisper, 
in  Miss  Maclvers's  ear,  a  liberty  she  would  not  have  taken 
or  Miss  Maclvers  allowed  under  less  exciting  circum- 
stances. "  It's  that  Mr.  Burns  who  was  here  once,  long 
ago,  you  remember?" 

"  So  I  think  we  have  all  inferred,"  said  Miss  Mac- 
lvers, haughtily,  withdrawing  her  ear. 

"  Well,  dear  me.  Send  one  of  those  fellows  out  there 
to  the  post-office,  can't  you?"  said  Miss  Morris.  "I 
wouldn't  think  of  going  out  in  this  rain." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  213 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Wilma,  "  I  must  go  myself.4' 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  "it  is  better  she 
should  go,  and  I — or  some  one — must  go  with  her." 

"  Not  you,  certainly,  Arabella,"  said  Miss  Morris  with 
emphasis,  she  being  a  sort  of  guardian  of  Miss  Raymond's 
health. 

Miss  Maclvers,  much  to  everybody's  surprise,  stepped 
forward.  "  I  will  go  with  her,  myself,"  she  said.  "  Wait, 
Miss  Lynne,  until  I  get  my  wraps." 

It  still  rained  a  little  when  they  stepped  out,  and  the 
night  was  dark  and  chilly.  Miss  Maclvers  tucked  Wil- 
ma's  hand  under  her  arm,  and  spoke  comfortingly  to  her, 
but  without  much  effect.  Wilma  was  so  sorely  wounded 
as  to  be  quite  reckless  about  what  was  due  to  anybody's 
dignity  and  importance,  but  walked  along  with  her  head 
bowed  and  her  tears  falling  fast,  hardly  conscious  of  the 
august  being  beside  her,  upon  whom  she  had  always 
before  looked  with  so  much  awe.  As  for  Miss  Maclvers, 
her  haughty  lips  curled  with  mingled  contempt  and  envy. 
That  that  Mr.  Burns,  whom  she  had  once  seen  and  ad- 
mired as  so  handsome  and  intellectual,  whose  fine,  earnest 
eyes  she  had  met, — the  remembrance  of  which  made  her 
cheeks  flush  even  yet, — should  belong,  in  his  affections 
and  in  betrothal,  to  this  simple  little  goose !  In  her  secret 
heart  Miss  Maclvers  felt  that  she  would  like  to  exchange 
places  with  the  simple  little  goose,  and  go  with  a  proud 
heart  for  the  expected  letter  which,  sure  enough,  was 
waiting.  For  it  was  a  time  when  maidenly  ambition 
pointed  to  military  heroes.  Though  maidenly  love,  such 
as  Wilma's,  shrank  with  terror  from  the  thought  of  giving 
up  their  lovers  to  make  military  heroes. 

Happy  news  is  well  enough  conveyed  in  letter,  but  sad 
news  can  come  in  no  more  crushing  form.  There  you  are 
alone  with  it.  It  is  like  a  stab  in  the  dark;  the  hand 
that  strikes  you  is  hid  from  you.  No  arm  to  steady  you, 
no  eye  to  look  pityingly  upon  you.  Nothing,  nothing 
but  the  cruel,  wounding  words. 

The  woman  who  handed  out  the  letter  went  back  to  the 
domestic  quarter  of  the  establishment,  and  Wilma  and 
Miss  Maclvers  were  left  alone  in  the  outer  office.  In  jus- 
tice to  Wilma  be  it  said  that  she  did  not  presume  to 


214 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


open  and  read  her  letter  in  that  presence  without  first  ask- 
ing permission,  which  being  accorded,  she  retired  a  little 
to  one  side  and  broke  the  seal.  Miss  Maclvers,  with  an 
instinct  of  delicacy,  also  turned  aside  and  walked  to  the 
window  to  watch,  by  the  light  of  a  few  street  lamps,  the 
rain  still  pattering  on  the  sidewalks  and  in  the  muddy 
streets.  A  carriage,  shining  wet,  went  splashing  by,  and 
an  omnibus  and  men  and  boys.  Now  and  then  she  glanced 
furtively  at  the  little  figure  quivering  with  choked  sobs ; 
and,  having  a  tender  spot  in  her  nature, — as  the  hardest 
of  us  have, — tears  sprang  into  her  own  eyes. 

Turning  around  when  she  had  read  the  letter, — it  was 
not  a  long  letter, — and  regardless  of  her  wet  cheeks, 
Wilma  held  it  out  and  asked,  timidly,  almost  apolo- 
getically, "Would  you  like  to  read  it,  Miss  Maclvers? 
It  is  all  about  the  volunteering  and  that  Captain  Cour- 
tenay  who  made  the  speech.  Oh,  I  wish  there  were  no 
Captain  Courtenay  !"  with  a  burst  of  tears.  "I  never 
let  any  one  read  his  letters  before,  but  now  it  seems  like 
— like  as  if  he  were  dead,  and — it — don't — matter  now." 

"There,  there;  don't  cry  so,  dear,"  said  Miss  Maclvers, 
soothingly.  "  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that ;  not  nearly  so  bad 
as  if  he  were  dead." 

She  put  her  arm  around  Wilma  and  drew  her  close  to 
her  side,  while  she  looked  over  the  letter. 

"Why,  surely,"  she  thought,  "there  is  nothing  here 
to  call  for  tears,  unless  they  were  tears  of  pride  and  joy  at 
having  such  a  lover  !" 

•The  letter  breathed  the  most  inspiring,  soul-stirring 
sentiments ;  such  as  dried  her  wet  lashes  and  made  her 
fine  eyes  flash  with  patriotic  fire. 

"  I  know  that  it  will  hurt  you,  darling,"  he  wrote;  "I 
would  have  come  and  told  you  if  I  could,  instead  of  writ- 
ing. I  will  come  soon  and  see  you,  Wilma.  I  tried  to 
prepare  you  a  little  in  some  of  my  preceding  letters ;  but 
I  know  that  it  will  be  a  shock  to  you,  all  the  same,  to 
know  that  I  have  enlisted.  Be  brave,  my  little  one.  I 
know  you  will ;  and  believe  this,  Wilma,  that  whether 
collegian  or  soldier,  I  am  the  same  to  you  always,  my 
darling,  your  CHARLEY." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  2 1 5 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

CRAWFORD  ACADEMY  was  not  deaf  to  the  call  to  arms. 
Nearly  the  whole  department  of  Greek  and  Latin  and 
the  Higher  Mathematics  drew  off  at  the  beck  of  Miss 
Maclvers's  especial  escort,  young  Haviland,  and  donned 
government  uniforms,  and  shouldered  government  muskets, 
and  went  into  camp.  Not  that  it  was  much  comfort  to 
Miss  Maclvers.  Mr.  Haviland  was  not  her  lover  in  an 
accepted,  or  even  in  an  offered  sense ;  and  showed  no 
disposition  to  become  so,  notwithstanding  that  she  came 
down  from  her  pride  and  dignity  and  manifested  some 
womanly  and  even  tearful  emotion  in  view  of  his  depar- 
ture for  the  dangerous  scenes  of  war.  She  actively  in- 
terested herself  in  a  flag,  which  was  to  be  presented  to 
his  company  by  the  young  ladies  of  the  academy,  and 
was  appointed  to  make  the  presentation  speech,  to  which 
he  responded,  expressing  the  company's  gratitude  in  a 
brief,  heart-felt  acceptance  of  the  gift,  which  they  em- 
phasized with  three  tremendous  cheers.  Afterward  he 
thanked  Miss  Maclvers,  personally,  for  her  great  kind- 
ness to,  and  interest  in,  a  young  Union  volunteer  like  him- 
self. And  pressed  her  hand  with  much  warmth  and 
fervor,  and  looked  eloquently  into  her  dark  eyes  that 
were  humid  and  tender.  But  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  a 
soldier,  rather  than  of  a  lover.  She  was  so  superior,  so 
exalted,  and  he  so  modestly  unpresuming,  that  he  would 
never  have  suspected  her  of  the  weakness  of  any  personal 
feeling  for  himself. 

Just  previous  to  their  going  away — Captain  Haviland's 
company — Mr.  Ingraham  permitted  another  sociable  in 
the  ladies'  hall  in  their  honor ;  and  on  this  occasion 
consented  to  have  dancing.  For  how  could  the  strangely 
compounded  enthusiasm  of  the  time  confine  itself  to  any 
milder  form  of  expression  than  the  delicious  excitement 
of  a  ball-room,  with  its  music  and  rhythmical  motion  ?  It 
happened  again,  strangely  enough,  that  Mr.  Burns  came 
the  very  day  of  the  sociable.  Wilma's  first  letter,  after 


2 1 6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

the  crushing  news  of  his  enlistment  reached  her,  carried 
with  it  a  shock  of  surprise  to  him  that  she  should  be  so 
greatly  affected  by  it,  followed  by  a  tender  pity  that  was 
eager  to  soften  the  blow  to  her.  In  the  excitement  of 
patriotism  that  had  hurried  him  into  the  ranks  he  had 
scarcely  thought  of  her  War  was  a  something  that 
concerned  the  men  of  the  nation,  and  a  something 
beside  which  all  the  private  and  personal  affairs  of  life 
became  small  and  insignificant.  Perhaps  it  was  this  very 
thought  that  was  so  crushing  to  Wilma.  She  who  had 
always  been  supreme  in  her  lover's  life,  and  consulted 
regarding  its  smallest  interests  and  changes,  saw  it  rushing 
by  her  in  a  great  sweep  and  leaving  her  behind.  And 
the  thought  (very  narrow  and  selfish,  no  doubt  it  was) 
striking  her  so  sharply  and  reflecting  itself  back  to  him 
in  her  complaining  letters,  aroused  him  to  a  view  of  the 
case  from  her  standpoint.  He  had  written  that  he  would 
come  soon,  but  there  had  been  so  much  delay  that  Wilma's 
terrified  heart  began  to  doubt  whether  he  would  come  at 
all.  And  in  reply  to  her  fears  he  wrote,  in  extreme  ten- 
derness, "  Let  me  take  your  hand  in  mine,  darling,  across 
this  wide  stretch  of  forest  and  prairie,  and  help  you  to 
wait." 

And  he  came  at  last,  unexpectedly.  Wilma,  on  her 
way  down  street,  met  him  a  little  way  from  Mrs.  Woods's 
gate,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

"Why,  why,"  said  he,  stopping  and  taking  both  her 
hands,  "what  is  the  matter?  You  have  a  very  sorrowful 
welcome  for  me.  Come,  come  !  why,  I  counted  on  your 
being  a  perfect  little  Spartan  !" 

"  I  don't  think  you  thought  of  me  at  all,"  said  Wilma, 
weakly,  in  a  hurt  voice.  But  her  heart  was  so  sore. 

Mr.  Burns's  brows  contracted.  He  was  eminently 
good-natured  and  sunny,  but  still  capable  of  sternness. 
He  had  come  very  tenderly  disposed  toward  Wilma,  and 
felt  the  hardness  of  parting  from  her.  But  she,  in  her 
blindness  (pain  will  make  us  blind),  somehow  repelled 
him ;  made  him  almost  wish  he  had  not  come.  Still 
holding  her  hand,  he  turned  her  about  to  walk  back  with 
her. 

"Are    the   students    in    there?"    he    asked,    nodding 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


217 


toward  the  house,  and  thinking  it  would  be  awkward  to 
go  in  just  now  if  they  were. 

"  Some  of  them  are  there,"  said  Wilma. 

"  Then  let  us  go  and  take  a  walk  in  the  woods,"  said 
he. 

He  wore  his  uniform,  and  in  Wilma's  eyes  looked  the 
most  nobly  beautiful  being  upon  the  earth.  He  had  a 
tall,  lithe,  symmetrical  figure  and  graceful  bearing.  His 
bright  hair  curled  about  his  white  temples.  His  face  was 
radiant  with  a  new  light ;  his  eyes  flashing,  his  soul  at  high 
tide  for  battle  and  for  glory.  Not  that  he  or  any  of  those 
enthusiastic  young  volunteers  rejoiced  in  the  great  calam- 
ity of  the  nation  ;  but  it  had  come  upon  us,  and  we  must 
fight.  So,  hurrah  !  If  there's  glory  in  it,  we'll  win  the 
glory.  The  Union  is  to  be  preserved,  and  we  will  pre- 
serve the  Union  though  we  die  for  it.  That  was  the  spirit 
of  the  times.  It  was  Charles  Burns's  spirit,  but  very  hard 
for  Wilma  to  catch  ;  it  called  upon  her  for  so  great  a  sac- 
rifice. But,  then,  was  it  any  harder  for  her  to  buckle  on 
her  lover's  sword  and  send  him  to  battle,  to  danger,  to 
death,  than  for  many  a  maiden  who  had  no  lover  to  buckle 
a  sword  upon  ?  It  may  not  be  a  fair  question  or  one  that 
anybody  can  answer  impartially,  because  we  all  speak  out 
of  our  own  experience.  We  who  have  loved  and  buried 
our  loved  ones,  in  one  way  or  other,  apply  this  pathetic 
philosophy  to  our  wounded  hearts, — 

"  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

And  we  who  have  never  loved,  or,  loving,  have  not  lost, 
smile,  superior  to  such  melancholy  sentiment. 

Wilma  felt  that  her  lover  was  almost  as  good  as  lost  (so 
to  speak).  It  was  agonizing  to  her  to  look  upon  him, 
her  brave,  beautiful,  chivalrous  Charley  !  It  seemed  as 
if  her  heart  must  break  with  grief  and  tenderness.  Now 
that  he  no  longer  belonged  wholly  to  her,  but  was  being 
borne  away  from  her  upon  this  great  public  wave,  he 
seemed  more  dazzling  and  splendid  to  her  than  ever 
before. 

They  went  into  the  woods,  and  Mr.  Burns  did  his  best 
to  inspire  her  with  some  of  his  own  enthusiasm ;  but 
K  19 


2 1 8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

failing  in  that,  and  his  good-humor  coming  back,  he 
attempted  to  throw  it  all  off  lightly. 

"What  does  it  signify?"  said  he.  "I  shall  probably 
come  back  in  a  few  months  with  the  gratifying  and  exalted 
sense  upon  me  of  having  done  something  for  my  country. 
A  feeling  that  is  calculated  to  make  a  man  think  better  of 
himself  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  I  know  whereof  I  speak, 
Wilma,"  he  added,  laughing;  "for  haven't  I  heard  some 
old  soldiers  recount  their  heroic  deeds?  And  heaven 
knows,  I  think  we  wretched  beings  have  need  to  be  stim- 
ulated into  thinking  well  of  ourselves  sometimes!" 

Wilma  felt  that  he  was  only  parrying  her  fears,  trying 
to  soothe  her  into  unconsciousness  of  the  dangers  of  war, 
and  still  clung  to  her  own  dark  side  of  the  picture.  So 
that  he  finally  came  down  to  an  honest  view  of  the  sub- 
ject, which  was  better,  and  owned  that,  as  to  his  life, — 
the  possibility  of  losing  it, — that  had  no  place  in  his 
thoughts.  He  had  given  it  already,  and  no  longer  reck- 
oned upon  it.  An  admission  that  chilled  Wilma's  blood 
and  made  her  lips  dumb.  For  what  could  she  say  after 
that?  His  generosity,  his  grandeur  of  soul,  humbled 
her.  How  many  leagues  he  had  gone  beyond  her  ! 

His  real  self,  he  said,  his  conscious  being,  he  believed 
would  live  on,  and  go  on  thinking  and  working  and  loving 
all  the  same.  He  told  Wilma  that  he  saw  no  difference 
in  being  on  this  side,  or  that,  of  the  wall  between  him 
and  eternity;  except,  perhaps,  that  the  society  over  there 
is  better  than  here,  and  one  can  mingle  with  it  more  freely 
by  not  being  borne  about  in  a  clumsy  body.  "I  have  a 
great  curiosity  about  that  other  side  of  life,"  he  said,  "  of 
whose  glories  it  hath  not  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to 
conceive.  Do  you  know,  Wilma,  that  after  hearing  so 
much  about  heaven,  one  is  a  little  surprised,  upon  going 
through  the  scriptures,  to  find  so  little  said  about  it  there ! 
Of  course  there  is  a  heaven  to  answer  to  the  cravings  of 
men's  souls.  There  must  be  a  heaven  in  which  are  gath- 
ered up  the  jewels  that  melt  away  from  earth.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  Shakspeare  and  all  those  grand  souls 
have  been  about  over  there  all  these  years  !  Something, 
I've  no  doubt,  that  will  be  for  our  good  when  we  get  there. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Wilma,  if  some  rebel  puts  a  bullet 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


219 


through  my  head,  or  my  heart,  I'll  just  embrace  the 
opportunity  to  slip  out  of  this  mortal  prison-house,  and 
I'll  go  and  explore  the  unseen  land  against  you  come; 
and  when  you  come  I  can  take  you  by  the  hand  and  lead 
you  all  through  the  wonderful  regions.  It  strikes  me  that 
heaven  must  be  a  safe  place  to  put  one's  friends,  Wilma ! 
There  is  not  half  the  danger  of  losing  them  there  as  in 
having  them  straying  about  this  earth,  where  there  are  so 
many  snares  and  dangers  and  pitfalls.  The  mother  is 
sure  of  the  baby  that  is  taken  up  in  Abraham's  bosom  ; 
she  is  not  sure  of  the  one  that  is  left  to  wander  here." 

"You  speak  of  heaven,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  looking 
up  with  a  struggling  smile,  "as  you  might  of  Italy  !" 

"  And  why  not?"  said  he.  "  I  have  never  seen  either 
place.  My  imagination  pictures  the  one,  my  spirit  pene- 
trates, almost,  to  the  other.  I  sometimes  fancy  that  in 
each  of  our  souls  is  wrapped  up  the  germ  of  our  heaven. 
I  don't  want  any  man  to  make  my  heaven  for  me;  let 
Milton  and  Dante  confine  themselves  to  their  own  king- 
doms. I  want  to  fashion  mine.  I  want  it  to  grow  out  of 
myself.  My  idea  of  it  is  that  it  will  be  no  more  and  no 
less  than  we  can  each  of  us  fully  appreciate  and  enjoy. 
There  may  be  much  more  of  it  than  we  know,  of  course ; 
but  for  us  there  will  be  just  what  we  can  take  in.  Just 
enough  of  freedom,  of  unconstrained  thought,  of  peace, 
of  love.  Here  we  have  not  enough,  you  know.  We  are 
never  quite  full  of  the  things  we  like.  Something  hinders 
us;  we  can't  go  far  enough,  or  high  enough,  or  deep 
enough.  We  can't  get  much  farther  than  our  bodily 
senses  can  take  us.  Sense  is  the  outer  wall  built  up  around 
our  souls,  and  beyond  that  we  can  go  but  a  very  little  way 
without  getting  wofully  mystified.  Still,  we  have  a  pretty 
wide  range,  we  men  and  women  have ;  see  how  much  we 
know  !  bah,  see  how  little  we  know.  At  all  events  I  am 
satisfied,  both  with  this  world  and  the  next.  I  believe  in 
them  both  with  all  my  heart.  It's  a  grand  scheme,  this 
scheme  of  life  !  I  have  no  fears." 

Wilma  was  silent.  A  new  world  seemed  opening.  Her 
lover  stood  revealed  to  her  in  a  largeness  of  mind  and 
thought — nay,  of  actual  life — with  which  she  had  not 
kept  pace,  of  which,  until  this  moment,  she  had  had  no 


2  20  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

conception.  How  small,  how  narrow,  how  selfish  were 
her  complainings  compared  with  his  pure  motives  and 
grand  aims!  And  she  had  tried  to  bind  down  to  herself, 
and  to  her  little  world,  this  great,  generous  nature. 

They  had  strayed  away,  out  of  town,  to  the  little  peb- 
bly stream  that,  a  year  ago,  she  and  Miss  Percy  had 
crossed  in  their  pleasant  drive.  Wilma  was  reminded  of 
it  by  the  pink  and  white  blossoms  on  the  trees  and  the 
birds  twittering  in  the  bushes.  Charley  gathered  a  hand- 
ful of  the  blossoms  and  tucked  them  in  her  hair. 

"  I  don't  know  which  are  most  becoming  to  you, 
Wilma,"  he  said,  smiling,  "the  pink  or  the  white  blos- 
soms, or  the  green  leaves.  I'm  not  much  on  effects;  think 
you  look  well  in  any  of  them.  You  are  a  sober  little 
thing,  Wilma,"  he  added.  "Why  don't  you  wear  some 
gay  colors,  blue  for  instance?" 

"  Like  your  uniform?"  said  Wilma,  smiling,  and  laying 
her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"  No  ;  a  brighter  blue,"  said  he.  "  More  like  the  sky. 
Was  ever  anything  so  blue  as  the  sky?"  Glancing  up 
through  the  trees. 

"  Your  eyes,  Charley,"  said  Wilma. 

"And  yours  are  brown, — aren't  they?  Contrast,"  said 
he.  "  I  like  contrasts.  Did  you  tell  me  you  drove 
through  this  rivulet  when  you  went  a-maying  that  time, 
you  and  Miss  Percy?" 

"Yes;  and  everything  looked  then  just  as  it  does  now, 
except  that  it  is  a  little  later  in  the  season  now." 

"You  are  very  fond  of  riding,"  said  Charley.  "Are 
you  not  ?  I  like  to  walk.  Contrast  again.  Though  that 
is  hardly  the  sort  of  contrast  to  make  a  harmony,  is  it  ? 
We  want  to  travel  together,  you  and  I,  and  we  must  adopt 
some  mode  agreeable  to  us  both,  when  we  begin  our  jour- 
ney, Wilma, — eh?" 

"  If  we  ever  begin  it !"  said  Wilma,  with  tears  starting 
afresh. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Charley.  "We  shall  journey  to- 
gether through  all  eternity.  And,  by  the  way,  Wilma,  there 
comes  in  another  of  the  delights  of  heaven, — perfect  con- 
geniality of  souls  !  How  often  we  hear  this  question,  Shall 
we  know  each  other  there  ?  Whether  we  will  or  not  de- 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  221 

pends  very  much  on  whether  we  know  each  other  here. 
Shall  I  know  my  mother,  with  the  earthly  tie  of  mother 
and  son  broken  and  dissolved  between  us?  -We  must 
keep  -in  mind  that  all  things  earthly  perish  ;  that  death 
breaks  all  relations,  except  the  relation  of  soul  to  soul. 
If  you  and  I  keep  close  to  each  other,  darling,  in  mind, 
in  thought,  *in  spirit,  we  shall  know  each  other  there. 
Will  not  that  be  a  beautiful  recognition  ?" 

They  had  sat  down  together  upon  a  fallen  tree,  and 
Charley  had  been  busy  making  a  wreath. 

"  There,  Wilma !  now  take  off  your  hat,  and  let  me 
put  this  on  your  head  ;  we'll  play  it's  May-day,  and  I'll 
crown  you  Queen  o'  May.  There ;  you've  no  idea  how 
pretty  it  looks.  Can't  you  step  down  there,  and  see  your- 
self in  the  water?  You  look  like  a  fajry." 

"A  brownie  !"  said  Wilma. 

"Well,  a  brownie;  that  is  a  fairy  all  the  same.  Say, 
to  come  back  to  a  dropped  subject,  why  don't  you  wear 
some  gayer  colors  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  will,  if  you  want  me  to.  You  spoke 
of  blue,  but  Miss  Barker  would  never  allow  me  to  wear 
blue,  I'm  so  dark.  I  have  worn  pink  a  good  deal,  you 
know." 

"And  looked  as  pretty  as  a  rose,"  said  Charley. 

"But  who  will  care  how  I  look  when  you  are  gone?" 
said  Wilma. 

"My  dear,  I  shall  care  all  the  same.  I  shall  see  you  in 
my  thoughts  and  in  my  dreams." 

"  And  in  your  thoughts  and  dreams  you  can  deck  me 
as  you  like." 

"  I  must  have  a  picture  of  you,  Wilma,"  said  Charley. 
"  A  good  one.  I  will  send  you  one  of  mine  when  I  go 
back.  By  the  way,  are  we  not  staying  out  here  a  good 
while  ?  I  see  the  sun  is  getting  low.  Do  you  remember 
how  often  we  used  to  watch  the  sun  set  from  the  top  of 
Little  Twin?  I  have  not  been  to  Hazelville  since  my 
mother  died.  I  have  always  intended  going.  It  would  be 
a  sad  sort  of  pleasure  to  me  to  stand  once  more  beside 
her  grave ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  it. 
Poor  mother,  she  never  thought  her  boy  would  be  a 
soldier!" 

19* 


222  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

They  had  arisen,  and  were  walking  slowly  back  toward 
Mrs.  Woods's. 

"What  a  revolution  circumstances  make  in  a  man's 
life,"  continued  Mr.  Burns.  "In  all  my  ambitions  and 
plans  and  aspirations,  I  never  took  this  circumstance — 
war — into  account.  I  thought,  somehow,  in  spite  of  all 
that  was  said,  that,  as  a  nation,  we  had  done  with  blood- 
shed,— had  got  above  it.  That,  however  much  the  foreign 
heathen  might  cut  and  slash  each  other,  we  were  superior 
to  it.  Alas,  we  are  all  made  of  one  common  clay !  What 
a  vain  conceit  for  any  of  us  to  fancy  ourselves  bright  ex- 
ceptions to  the  general  rule  !  I  have  looked  across  the 
ocean  at  men  killing  one  another,  and  felt  that  sort  of 
pitying  contempt  we  entertain  for  inferior  creatures. 
Now  these  same  creatures  are  in  the  ascendant,  and  will 
stretch  up  their  necks,  and  look  across  at  us.  Bah,  what 
wretches  we  are  !" 

"  Then,  why  do  you  go?"  said  Wilma,  as  one  catches 
at  a  straw. 

"  One  can't  escape.  I  belong  to  a  period  ;  I  must  act 
with  the  times.  I  don't  approve  of  war,  but  it's  not  a 
time  to  proclaim  it  when  the  country  is  in  arms  and  the 
enemy  in  our  midst.  The  mistake  is  here :  we  are  not 
diligent  enough  in  times  of  peace  to  elevate  ourselves 
above  the  possibility  of  war ;  we  are  working  up  to  it, 
and  in  the  mean  time  we  must  do  the  best  we  can." 

When  they  reached  Mrs.  Woods's  gate,  Mr.  Burns 
looked  at  his  watch.  "  It  is  five  o'clock,  Wilma.  I  will 
go  down  to  the  hotel  and  eat  my  supper  and  then  come 
back  if  you  want  me,  and  stay  until  time  for  this  sociable 
you  speak  of.  I  always  happen  here  in  time  for  your  fes- 
tivities." 

Wilma  assented  and  went  in.  The  tea-bell  was  jingling, 
and  as  soon  as  tea  was  over  she  went  into  her  room  to 
dress  for  the  evening.  Miss  Raymond  helped  her. 

"You  are  to  be  the  belle  of  the  evening,"  she  said, 
"because  you  have  such  a  handsome  lover." 

She^  braided  Wilma's  hair  and  wound  it  about  her 
head  ;*  and  looped  up  her  white  muslin  dress  with  bows 
of  pink  ribbon  and  tiny  sprays  of  clematis,  and  then  pro- 
nounced her  lovely.  Which  she  was,  with  her  pretty, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


223 


oval  face  saddened  a  little,  and  her  sweet,  brown  eyes 
looking  as  if  there  were  tears  back  of  them. 

"Hark!"  said  Miss  Raymond,  peeping  from  the  win- 
dow. "  I  hear  some  one  coming, — and  it  is  that  lieuten- 
ant of  yours.  What  a  soldierly  figure  and  bearing  he  has, 
Wilma  !  I  suspect  you  are  very  proud  of  him  !"  tapping 
her  cheek.  "  There,  you  must  go  out,  now ;  he  has  come 
up  into  the  porch." 

Wilma  went  out  and  opened  the  door.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  study-room,  and  Charley  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  bent  down  and  touched  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  al- 
most with  solemnity.  There  had  always  been  in  his 
affection  for  her,  and  in  his  treatment  of  her,  a  great  deal 
of  reverence. 

"My  Wilma!"  he  said,  tenderly,  "how  can  I  leave 
you?  You  are  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  except  those  abstract  things  we  call  honor, — prin- 
ciple. I  told  you  once — you  remember,  do  you  not? — 
that  it  might  be  I  should  some  time  be  compelled  to  give 
my  life  to  something  else  rather  than  to  you ;  and  the 
time  has  come,  darling.  And  I  am  hardly  prepared  for 
it.  Just  now  I  feel  unstrung  at  the  sight  of  you  and  the 
thought  of  leaving  you." 

"But  if  you  love  me,  Charley,"  said  Wilma,  with  a 
sad  little  smile  that  showed  the  heartache  beneath  it,  "  if 
we  have  each  other's  affections,  that  is  having  the  best 
part  of  each  other,  is  it  not?  So  long  as  you  live  I  shall 
feel  that  you  are  near  to  me.  But  if  you  fall " 

Her  lip  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  If  I  fall,"  interrupted  Charley,  "  your  life  must  blos- 
som all  the  more ;  it  must  blossom  for  us  both.  I  know 
it  will.  I  know  something  of  the  spirit  that  is  in  you, 
my  darling  !  It  will  not  be  easily  crushed.  You  know 
what  I  have  always  aimed  at,  Wilma,  for  you  and  for  me. 
If  I  never  come  back  to  you,  make  your  life  what  I  would 
have  it  to  be.  Can  you  promise  me  that?" 

It  was  a  moment  of  as  great  solemnity  as  either  had 
ever  experienced.  Wilma's  heart  was  too  full  for  utter- 
ance, and  she  answered  by  a  pressure  of  the  hand. 

One  by  one  the  young  ladies  came  out,  dressed,  and 
flooded  the  little  sitting-room  with  bloom  and  elegance. 


224  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Captain  Haviland,  and  one  or  two  other  gentlemen  in 
uniform, — among  them  Starr  Raymond,  Captain  Cour- 
tenay's  second  lieutenant,  who  had  arrived  on  the  evening 
train  from  the  capital,  and  whom  his  sister  greeted  with 
a  flood  of  tears,  which  she  immediately  dashed  away,  her 
disposition  being  a  good  deal  like  an  April  day.  Mr. 
Burns  was  introduced  to  all  that  were  new  to  him,  and 
shook  hands,  cordially,  with  those  whom  he  had  met  be- 
fore, and  made  himself  delightfully  agreeable. 

Miss  Maclvers,  hearing  him  remark  that  his  regiment 
was  encamped,  for  drill,  at  the  beautiful  little  city  of 
R ,  one  of  the  loveliest  places  in  the  West,  he  de- 
clared, turned  to  him  and  said,  with  a  charming  smile, 
"Do  you  think  so?  That  is  my  home." 

"  Indeed?"  said  he,  turning  to  look  at  her,  and  feeling 
strongly  attracted.  Presently  he  drew  his  chair  near  to 
her. 

"I  shall  regret,"  he  said,  his  eyes  lingering  upon  her 
beautiful  face  with  frank  admiration,  "  that  you  are  not 
at  home  when  I  go  back  to  my  regiment !" 

"Oh,  but  I  shall  be  there  then,  I  presume,"  she  re- 
turned. "  I  intend  going  home  to-morrow." 

"You  do?  And  I  return  tomorrow,"  said  he.  "I 
hope  you  will  not  think  me  presumptuous  if  I  contrive  to 
take  the  same  train  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  laughing,  and  added — arch- 
ing her  exquisite  brows — something  about  its  being  fitting, 
"  in  these  per'lous  times,"  for  ladies  to  travel  with  armed 
knights.  She  went  on,  her  color  rising  and  her  beauty 
growing  upon  him,  to  tell  him  about  her  home,  its  situa- 
tion, its  elevation  upon  the  summit  of  a  terraced  hill,  and 
its  distance  from  the  camping-ground.  And,  looking 
into  each  other's  eloquent  eyes,  and  making  delightful 
excursions  into  each  other's  consciousness,  they  were  both 
mutually  pleased. 

"  I  think  I  remember  the  place  you  describe,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "  We  have  passed  it  occasionally  in  our  evening 
walks.  I  remember  the  fountain  and  the  terraces  and  the 
image  of  the  Newfoundland  dog.  I  hope  you  will  be  so 
gracious  as  to  invite  us  to  come  and  see  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  she  answered,  laughing.     "If 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  225 

the  war  does  no  other  good  it  ought  certainly  to  develop 
hospitality  in  us  toward  the  defenders  of  our  country." 

Mr.  Burns's  face  flushed  pleasurably. 

"You  say  'us?'"  continued  Miss  Maclvers,  raising 
her  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  I  included  Captain  Courtenay,"  said  he.  "  He 
and  I  usually  stroll  out  together." 

"  I  have  heard  of  Captain  Courtenay,  frequently,"  said 
Miss  Maclvers.  "The  papers  speak  very  flatteringly  of 
him." 

"The  papers  cannot  do  him  justice,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
quietly. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  nobody  can  describe  him.  One  must  see 
Captain  Courtenay ;  his  presence,  his  manner,  his  looks, 
voice,  gestures,  bearing,  create  an  effect  upon  you  that 
no  description  could  give  you  a  conception  of.  If  you 
saw  him  you  would  comprehend  what  I  mean.  It  seems 
to  me  he  has  it  in  him  to  be  great,  more  than  any  other 
man  I  have  ever  met ;  but  whether  fortune  will  make  him 
an  Alexander  or  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  I  can't  say." 

"In  what  direction  is  he  capable  of  greatness?"  asked 
Miss  Maclvers.  "As  a  soldier?" 

"As  a  soldier,  or  statesman,  or  orator,  or  anything  he 
might  turn  to,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  smiling.  "I  see  you 
are  incredulous,  so  I'll  say  no  more." 

"Oh,  yes,  go  on.  What  else?  I  am  deeply  inter- 
ested." 

"Well,  then,  he  is  the  most  magnificently  handsome 
man  I  have  ever  seen.  You  will  think  that  a  great  step- 
ping-down,  I  suspect,  to  pass  from  a  man's  splendid  capa- 
bilities to  his  mere  looks." 

"  Ah,  I  suspect  you  meant  to  deepen  my  interest  in 
your  gallant  captain,"  laughed  Miss  Maclvers. 

"  And  so  persuade  you  to  let  me  take  him  to  call  upon 
you,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  Maybe  you  are  right." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  you  must  bring  him  to  see  me." 

"Thank  you.  You  plant  an  oasis  in  the  desert.  I 
dreaded  the  tedium  of  camp  life." 

Some  one  said  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  academy,  and 
Miss  Maclvers  glanced  at  her  little,  diamond-studded 
*K 


226  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

watch  and  arose.  Mr.  Burns  started  up  and  crossed  over 
to  Wilma. 

On  the  way  to  the  academy  Miss  Allen  remarked  to 
some  of  the  girls,  "If  Wilma  doesn't  look  sharp,  Miss 
Maclvers  will  get  her  handsome  lieutenant  away  from 
her." 

"  So  I  think,"  said  Miss  Morris.  "And  no  great  won- 
der. What  the  young  man  can  see  in  that  little  Miss 
Lynne  to  admire  is  more  than  I  can  fathom." 

"Matilda,"  said  Miss  Raymond,  warmly,  "if  you 
can't  see  anything  noble  or  beautiful  in  Wilma  Lynne 
yourself,  go  and  ask  Miss  Belmont  to  describe  her  to 
you." 

"Pray  excuse  me,"  said  Miss  Morris,  sneeringly. 

The  ladies'  hall  was  beautifully  decorated  with  leaves 
and  flowers,  and  festooned  with  flags.  Two  immense 
chandeliers  overhead  flooded  it  with  light,  and  a  full 
band  of  music  was  playing  and  lading  the  air  with  a  pas- 
sionate joy  and  sadness.  The  soft,  warm  wind  drifted 
through  the  open  windows.  The  night  was  magnetic  and 
subtle  and  strange.  Voices  were  subdued,  eyes  were  beam- 
ing, cheeks  glowing,  and  hearts  beating  high  with  the 
tumultuous  glory  feeling  that  war  brings. 

Wilma,  coming  in  on  her  lover's  arm,  was  conscious  of 
the  strange  vibration  of  the  atmosphere,  and  seemed  to 
feel,  under  all  the  music  and  the  hum  of  voices  and  the 
lights  and  beauty  and  fragrance  the  far-off  booming  of 
battles  ;  and  above  the  sublimity  of  an  eternity  and  of 
grand  lives  budded  in  earth,  amid  all  its  strifes  and  tumults, 
expanding  in  everlasting  life  and  bloom.  Charley  had  so 
opened  up  and  brought  near  to  her  wonderful  spiritual 
regions.  She  determined  to  get  up  on  a  level  with  him 
and  look  abroad.  Ah,  she  could  do  that,  with  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  thrilled  by  the  magnetism  of  his  touch, 
his  voice  in  her  ear,  his  face  bending  above  her !  It  is 
certain  she  was  lifted  up  above  all  the  small,  practical 
affairs  of  her  little  life.  All  the  hopes  they  had  had,  all 
the  plans  they  had  made,  sank  into  nothingness.  What 
mattered  anything  but  that  he  loved  her  and  that  in  heart 
they  were  united  !  After  all,  what  were  earthly  ties  ?  They 
might  kill  her  Charley,  but — though  the  bare  thought 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  227 

made  her  heart  bleed — they  could  not  take  him  from  her  ! 
Brave  little  Wilma  !  She  was  coming  up  grandly,  as  Char- 
ley had  said  she  would.  She  had  given  up  his  life  just  as 
he  himself  had  given  it  up,  and  was  standing  on  the 
heights  with  him  as  they  had  stood  together  on  the  top 
of  Little  Twin. 

Many  couples  were  promenading  to  the  heavily-charged 
music.  A  number  of  soldiers  were  there  in  uniforms  not 
yet  stained  with  blood  ;  officers  with*  shoulder-straps  and 
swords  dangling,  supporting  upon  their  arms  fair  partners 
whose  eyes  beamed  with  a  softened  radiance  ;  for  when 
men  are  brave  women  are  more  tender.  A  little  group 
collected  and  stood  talking  together,  and,  at  its  breaking 
up  and  falling  into  line  with  the  promenaders,  Captain 
Haviland  offered  his  arm  to  Wilma,  and  Mr.  Burns  turned 
to  Miss  Maclvers ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Wilma 
saw  him  detached  from  herself  and  giving  his  smiles  and 
the  dear  light  of  his  eyes  to  another,  who  answered  back 
with  glances  charged  with  electric  power.  They  walked 
before  her,  and  his  head  was  slightly  bent  toward  his  com- 
panion. It  flashed  upon  Wilma  that  she  had  as  yet  taken 
but  one  step  in  grief, — a  very  baby  step.  Charley  was 
going  away,  and  she  had  cried  as  a  child  might  cry  whose 
toy  was  broken.  The  heart  can  be  quickly  educated. 
In  a  moment  it  came  to  her  that  this  sort  of  separation, 
though  it  were  to  last  till  death,  was  nothing,  nothing 
compared  with  soul -division.  To  lose  Charley  was 
nothing;  to  lose  his  love  was  all  the  world.  And  the 
possibility  of  losing  it  was  dimly  shadowed  forth  in  his 
frankly  apparent  admiration  of  Miss  Maclvers.  Mr. 
Burns  himself  did  not  dream  of  the  possibility ;  he  be- 
lieved that  he  needed  Wilma  as  much  as  he  ever  needed 
her.  But  it  is  true  his  world  was  widening  out.  He  had 
not  changed  in  respect  to  her ;  she  still  held  the  same 
safe  corner  of  his  heart.  But  many  other  corners  had 
been  opened  up.  Certainly  life  was  larger  than  he  had 
once  thought  it.  The  world  had  more  interests  for  him  than 
he  had  counted  upon, — many  interests  which  she  did  not 
share.  It  would  have  surprised  him  to  have  been  brought 
suddenly  to  face  the  thought  that  she  was  not  indispensa- 
ble to  him.  It  would  have  been  a  shock  to  him  no  less 


228  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

than  to  her,  and  perhaps  not  less  painful  to  him  than  to 
her.  He  would  have  lost  confidence  in  himself;  he 
would  have  been  hurt  and  humiliated.  But  just  now  he 
was  saved  from  it;  he  felt  himself  to  be  true  and  loyal. 
He  was  happy ;  he  was  fearless ;  launched  upon  a  great 
wave  of  public  enthusiasm.  It  is  not  often  in  our  lives 
that  we  can  throw  ourselves  forward  with  the  tide  ;  usually 
we  must  stem  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  following  morning  Mr.  Burns  came  to  bid  Wilma 
good-by  and  to  take  Miss  Maclvers  to  the  train.  Miss  Mac- 
Ivers's  great  trunk  was  packed  and  strapped,  and  standing 
in  the  porch  waiting  to  be  carried  to  the  depot.  Miss 
Maclvers  herself  came  down-stairs  in  an  elaborate,  pearl- 
gray  travelling-dress,  with  some  bits  of  rose-color  here  and 
there  to  set  it  off.  And  again  the  electric  fire  that  flashed 
between  her  own  and  Mr.  Burns's  eyes  the  night  before, 
lighted  up  both  faces  when  they  met. 

Though  Miss  Maclvers  was  not  a  coquette.  She  had 
too  much  dignity  to  descend  to  vulgar  flirtation.  She 
disliked  coarseness.  She  rather  scorned  the  admiration 
that  is  based  upon  mere  physical  beauty.  She  felt  that 
she  charmed  Mr.  Burns  by  something  more  than  that,  and 
she  liked  the  homage  he  paid  her  with  his  eloquent  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  explore  her  mind  as  well  as  her  face. 
She  liked  the  intellectual  intercourse  with  an  understand- 
ing like  his.  They  could  measure  each  other.  Both  of 
them  had  read  a  good  deal,  and  partly  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. She  was,  perhaps,  the  more  polished,  but  he  had 
thought  farther. 

Most  of  the  students  were  in  the  study-room,  and  there 
was  no  opportunity  for  Wilma  to  speak  to  Mr.  Burns 
aside,  though  her  heart  ached  for  some  tender  parting 
word.  A  dray  came  for  Miss  Maclvers's  trunk. 

"  I  did.  not  order  a  carriage,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  I  did 
not  know  what  your  arrangements  were." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


229 


"Oh,  I  intend  to  walk  to  the  train,"  said  Miss  Mac- 
Ivers.  "  It  is  only  a  step." 

"Then  perhaps  we  had  better  start,"  said  he,  looking 
at  his  watch.  "  We  will  have  barely  time." 

Miss  Maclvers  arose,  and  Mr.  Burns  turned  to  Wilma, 
who  was  waiting  with  trembling  heart  for  the  leave-taking. 
All  her  courage  had  ebbed  away. 

"You  will  go  to  the  train  with  us  and  see  us  off,  will 
you  not,  Wilma?"  said  he. 

Oh,  why  were  all  these  people  here  to  witness  this  su- 
preme parting?  Why  could  they  not  have  one  little 
moment  alone?  A  little  while  ago  she  could  not  bid 
Charley  "good-by"  in  the  presence  of  her  own  family. 
Now,  she  felt  reckless  enough  to  throw  her  arms  around 
his  neck  before  them  all ;  but  that  he  himself  seemed 
constrained. 

"Let  me  go  with  you,  too,  Wilma,"  said  Miss  Ray- 
mond, "so  that  you  will  have  company  back." 

As  they  passed  out  the  gate,  which  Mr.  Burns  held  open, 
she  slipped  her  hand  through  Miss  Maclvers's  arm  and 
said,  significantly,  "  We  will  walk  on  and  leave  the  lovers 
to  follow  at  their  leisure." 

Mr.  Burns,  with  the  charm  of  Miss  Maclvers's  presence 
still  upon  him,  could  hardly  recall  himself  at  once  to  the 
old  attitude  of  tenderness  toward  Wilma. 

"What  a  fine  morning!"  he  said,  alighting  upon  the 
commonest  of  topics.  "  I  am  going  to  begin  cultivating 
an  extra  affection  for  old  mother  nature,  now  that  I  am 
to  be  turned  out  of  doors,  with  her  green  sod  for  my 
carpet  and  the  blue  sky  for  my  roof!  I  don't  mean  to 
spend  much  of  my  time  cooped  up  in  a  little  soldier's 
tent,  I  can  tell  you.  I  have  a  sort  of  reckless  feeling 
about  all  the  duties  and  obligations  of  life,  like  a  boy  let 
loose  from  school." 

"But  do  you  think  it  is  right  to  feel  so,  Charley?" 
Wilma  asked,  merely  because  he  paused  there. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  suppose  not.  A  soldier  is  morally  respon- 
sible, the  same  as  anybody  else.  But  I  am  upset.  I  am 
jostled  out  of  my  course.  I  shall  be  all  right  by  and  by, 
when  I  get  settled.  I  hope  so." 

"How  long  will  you  be  in  camp  at  R .?"  Wilma 


230  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

asked,  not  without  reference,  in  her  thought,  to  Miss 
Maclvers. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  will  depend,  partly,  on  how  fast  our 
regiment  fills  up, — a  couple  of  months,  maybe.  I  have 
gained  something  by  coming  to  see  you,  haven't  I?"  he 
asked,  nodding  toward  Miss  Maclvers.  "  I  shall  have  a 
place  to  visit  while  I  am  in  camp.  What  a  charming 
person  she  is  !" 

"Yes;  she  is  very  beautiful  and  accomplished,"  said 
Wilma. 

They  had  no  time  to  spare  at  the  depot ;  the  train  was 
coming  in.  Mr.  Burns  had  to  attend  to  Miss  Maclvers's 
trunk.  Then  he  shook  hands  with  Miss  Raymond,  kissed 
and  embraced  Wilma  hurriedly,  helped  Miss  Maclvers  up 
the  steps,  and  sprang  up  after  her,  waving  Jais  hand  as  the 
train  moved  off.  Wilma  stood  looking  after  it  with  stream- 
ing eyes,  and  Miss  Raymond  put  her  arm  around  her 
gently,  and  drew  her  away.  A  number  of  by-standers 
were  lounging  about,  to  whom  a  soldier's  leave-taking 
was  no  new  thing. 

Mr.  Burns,  standing  on  the  platform  outside,  pitying 
the  pain  in  Wilma's  face,  turned  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  town,  and  said  to  himself,  with  a  sigh, 
"Poor  Wilma  !  well,  it  can't  be  helped  ;"  and  went  into 
the  car  and  looked  about  for  his  companion,  and  took  a 
seat  beside  her  with  the  air  of  a  "natural  protector;" 
the  little  cloud  that  had  settled  upon  his  face  vanishing 
rapidly  in  the  light  of  hers.  People  looked  curiously 
and  admiringly  at  the  handsome  pair,  and  wondered  if 
the  beautiful  lady  were  the  soldier's  bride.  And  Miss 
Maclvers  enjoyed  the  situation  ;  she  liked  to  triumph  ; 
she  liked  to  hold  an  advantageous  position  before  the 
world.  In  that  she  differed  from  Mr.  Burns.  He  did 
nothing  for  effect ;  he  was  not  concerned  about  anything 
people  thought  or  said;  he  did  not  imagine  that  folks 
could  be  interested  in  speculating  about  him. 

They  stopped  at  a  small  station,  and  a  woman  with 
two  children  was  gathering  up  her  bundles  to  get  off. 
Mr.  Burns,  observing  her  hurry  and  confusion,  went 
and  helped  her  courteously,  and  then  came  back  and  sat 
down  again. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


231 


"  You  are  very  gallant !"  laughed  Miss  Maclvers,  mock- 
ingly, and,  though  it  grated  on  Mr.  Burns's  finer  sense,  he 
smiled  back  at  her. 

"  Gallant  is  hardly  the  word,  is  it?"  said  he.  "Call 
it  a  little  act  of  humanity." 

"  Oh,  very  well!"  She  turned  her  head  and  looked 
out  of  the  car-window,  and  presently  exclaimed,  "  What  a 
blank,  aimless  stare  the  people  have  who  congregate  about 
these  depots  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  "I  suppose  it  is  curiosity 
that  brings  them  here,  and  yet  their  faces  show  very  little 
of  that." 

"And  they  all  belong  to  our  species,"  said  Miss  Mac- 
lvers. "Now,  if  we  could  classify  them  in  some  lower 
order;  but  we  can't.  Humiliating,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  he;  "I  hate  to  think 
about  it.  One  is  inclined  to  fall  in  with  an  article  of  the 
Buddhist's  creed, — which  is,  that  we  are  not  all  immortal 
beings;  only  a  few  can  attain  to  the  sanctified  state  they 
call  Nirvana" 

"But  Buddhists  are  not  predestinarians,  are  they?" 
said  Miss  Maclvers.  "The  'chosen  few'  are  not  elected; 
their  immortality  depends  on  themselves." 

"Every  man  is  elected  at  his  birth,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
"  to  a  certain  heritage.  He  has  within  him  the  germs  of 
his  own  fate." 

"  I  fancy  our  destinies  are  written  upon  our  faces," 
said  Miss  Maclvers,  laughing,  and  still  looking  from  the 
window.  "  See,  what  a  dreadful  old  woman!  Do  you 
not  think  such  faces  are  fated?" 

"  What  is  fate?"  Mr.  Burns  asked.  "  My  opinion,  as 
I  have  just  intimated,  is  that  it  is  a  something  within  us, 
and  which  shapes  us,  rather  than  a  something  outside 
overruling  us.  But  we  must  be  careful,"  he  added,  "and 
not  judge  people  altogether  by  their  outward  seeming ; 
we  may  not  be  able  always  to  read  the  signs  correctly." 

"Of  course  not.  People  are  not  answerable  for  their 
looks ;  it  is  the  moral  nature  we  may  criticise  and  find 
fault  with." 

"May  we,  really?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  looking  at  her 
with  his  smiling  eyes,  and  a  charming  curve  about  his 


232 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


lips — (which  you  and  I,  reader,  know  deepened,  in  after- 
years,  to  almost  a  sneer). 

"Are  we  any  more  responsible  for  our  moral  nature 
than  for  our  faces  ?  For  my  part,  I  think  our  physical 
nature  is  quite  as  much  under  our  control  as  our  moral." 

"How  can  that  be?"  said  Miss  Maclvers,  opening  her 
eyes. 

"We  can  educate  the  expression  of  the  face,  but  the 
features  will  remain  the  same ;  what  more  can  we  do  with 
the  mind  ?  We  can  cultivate  it,  we  can  tone  it  down, 
but  we  cannot  change  it." 

"You  teach  me  a  broad  charity,"  said  Miss  Maclvers. 

"  Charity  for  others,  and  for  ourselves,  too,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "  Heaven  knows  !  we  have  need  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  charity  for  ourselves  sometimes,  to  save  us  from 
dire  humiliation  and  despair." 

"I  never  thought  of  that  !"  said  Miss  Maclvers.  "I 
did  not  suppose  Ve  had  any  right  to  pity  and  forgive  our- 
selves." 

"  We  have  as  good  right  to  pity  and  forgive  ourselves, 
as  we  have  to  pity  and  forgive  others.  Let  us  be  just." 

The  train  moved  on  ;  and  at  such  a  rapid  and  roaring 
speed  that  conversation,  except  in  the  intervals  of  stop- 
ping at  small  stations  for  a  minute  or  two  at  a  time,  was 
next  to  impossible.  Miss  Maclvers  put  her  elbow  on  the 
window-sill  and  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  and 
looked  out  ;  the  fresh  spring  breeze  blowing  in  her  face 
and  deepening  its  delicate  rose-color,  and  fluttering  her 
ribbons  and  taking  liberties  with  her  fleecy  gray  veil ; 
sometimes  fastening  it  to  Mr.  Burns's  shoulder-straps, 
and  sometimes  making  it  hover  over  him  like  a  cloud. 
She  had  hardly  ever,  with  all  her  beauty,  looked  so  beau- 
tiful as  she  did  now.  But  Mr.  Burns  was  not  looking  at 
her.  It  seemed  that  he  did  not  care  to  look  at  her,  except 
when  he  talked  to  her ;  he  was  not  in  love  with  her ;  he 
sat  with  his  eyes  straight  before  him,  thinking  ;  he  had 
an  exceedingly  active  brain,  and  was  always  digging  into 
some  abstract  subject.  The  little  conversation  with  Miss 
Maclvers  had  given  him  a  cue  and  he  was  following  it  up. 
Miss  Maclvers  had  too  much  tact  to  engross  him. 

When  they  reached  R ,  a  carriage  was  waiting  for 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


233 


her,  and  he  helped  her  into  it,  pressed  her  hand  cordially 
but  not  sentimentally,  and  said  he  should  soon  avail  him- 
self of  her  kind  permission  to  visit  her.  The  carriage 
whirled  away,  and  he  directed  his  steps  at  once  to  the 
camping-ground,  his  thoughts  pleasantly  tinged  with  rec- 
ollections of  the  brief  journey. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

CAPTAIN  COURTENAY  declined  the  honor  of  an  intro- 
duction to  the  imperial  beauty  and  belle  of  R (for 

such  Miss  Maclvers  was  considered  in  her  own  town),  say- 
ing, when  Mr.  Burns  mentioned  it  to  him  a  day  or  two 
after  his  return  to  camp,  enigmatically,  "I  have  more 
women  on  my  hands  now  than  I  know  what  to  do  with." 

It  is  true  that  he  was  courted  most  assiduously,  though 
not  at  all  successfully,  by  the  fair  sex  wherever  he  went. 

Mr.  Burns,  hotly  indignant,  retorted,  "You  need  not 
fear  that  Miss  Maclvers  is  likely  to  throw  herself  on  your 
hands!" 

Captain  Courtenay  smiled  cynically,  and  Mr.  Burns 
caught  up  his  hat  and  left  the  tent  and  made  his  way 
over  into  the  town,  designing  to  pay  his  first  visit  to  his 
agreeable  travelling  companion.  The  sun  was  barely 
half  an  hour  high,  and  the  day's  heat  and  bustle  and  dust 
were  over.  Life  in  the  busy  city  was  quieting  itself  to  a 
subdued  hum.  From  one  of  the  several  imposing  churches 
a  chime  of  bells  rang  out,  clear  and  sweet,  calling  to  even- 
ing prayers,  and  a  few  belated  sisters  of  some  charitable 
order  were  hastening  away. 

"Poor  things!"  said  Mr.  Burns,  to  whom  they  in 
passing  deigned  no  glance,  but  kept  their  eyes  resolutely 
on  the  pavement.  "  I  pity  them,  because  they  shut  out 
from  their  hearts  and  lives  so  much  of  this  sweet  world. 
But  why  should  I  pity  them  ?  Their  lives  are  full  of  some- 
thing else,  of  course :  of  hope  in  the  future, — of  faith. 
No  doubt  they  pity  me!"  And  he  smiled  and  looked 

20* 


234 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


about  him,  and  felt  with  intense  thankfulness  that  he  was 
open  to  all  the  joyous  influences  that  could  be  borne  in 
upon  him.  He  glanced  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  around 
upon  the  green  earth,  and  breathed  the  pure  air,  and  took 
in  the  beauty  and  fragrance  blooming  inside  the  pretty 
garden  fences,  and  honestly  thanked  heaven  that  he  was 
as  he  was ;  a  man  free  from  prejudice  and  unfettered  by 
superstition  ;  charitable  and  kindly  disposed  toward  all 
men  ;  fearless  and  independent  in  thought ;  determined 
to  examine  all  things  and  grasp  whatever  was  good,  and 
throw  away  what  was  evil.  It  was  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  prosecuted  boldly,  and  without  fear  of  becoming 
disloyal  to  Wilma,  his  acquaintance  with  Miss  Maclvers. 
He  had  unbounded  confidence  in  himself.  He  believed 
in  growth  and  development  and  expansion,  and  was 
ready  to  press  on  and  take  the  consequences. 

A  river  crossed  the  main  street  of  the  city,  in  the  midst 
of  it,  spanned  by  an  iron  bridge.  Many  people  were 
traversing  the  bridge  to  and  fro.  Mr.  Burns  paused  mid- 
way across  it  and  leaned  upon  the  railing,  and  looked 
down  into  the  clear,  swift-running  water.  The  sun  shone 
aslant  upon  it,  and  was  reflected  from  the  shining  sides 
of  many  a  silvery  fish  that,  rising  almost  to  the  surface, 
flapped  himself  over  and  darted  down  out  of  sight  swift 
as  an  arrow.  Mr.  Burns  enjoyed  such  scenes,  and  felt 
just  now  a  freedom  to  enjoy  them  which  he  had  not  often 
allowed  himself  in  the  last  few,  studious  years.  He 
turned  away  half  reluctantly  and  walked  on.  He  soon 
passed  into  a  side  street,  and  ascended  a  long,  sloping 
hill,  on  whose  terraced  summit  stood  the  mansion  Miss 
Maclvers  had  described  as  her  home.  The  fountain  was 
spouting  in  front,  and  on  one  of  the  green  terraces  lay 
the  huge  image  of  a  Newfoundland  dog.  By  these  Mr. 
Burns  was  convinced  he  had  not  mistaken  the  place.  He 
opened  an  iron  gate,  and  went  up  the  broad  stone  steps 
that  led  to  the  main  entrance.  The  dewy  evening  air  was 
heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  climbing  roses  that  wreathed 
themselves  around  the  massive  stone-work  of  the  portico 
guarding  the  door.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  turned  to  look 
about  him  while  waiting.  The  view  was  fine.  Nearly 
the  whole  city — with  the  river,  now  dark  with  the  gather- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


235 


ing  shadows,  winding  through  it — was  spread  out  below, 
and  sharply  defined  in  the  slanting  sunlight  that  came 
from  behind.  Beyond  was  the  camping-ground,  on  an 
open,  level  plain,  and  the  red  light  shone  upon  that,  too. 
Mr.  Burns  was  reminded  of  Little  Twin  and  of  Wilma. 

"  Poor  little  Wilma  !"  he  said,  thinking  of  her  grieved 
face  as  the  train  moved  off. 

The  door  opened  behind  him,  and  he  turned  around 
and  felt  in  his  vest-pocket  for  a  card. 

"  Is  Miss  Maclvers  at  home?" 

"Yes,  sah.  Walk  in,  sah,"  said  the  ebony  black  attend- 
ant, and  showed  him  through  a  thickly-matted  hall  into  a 
high,  spacious  room  that  had  an  air  of  costly  elegance, 
suggestive  of  Miss  Maclvers  herself.  The  windows  were 
raised,  and  through  the  half-open  Venetian  blinds  the  wind 
came  softly,  swaying  the  cobweb  curtains.  Mr.  Burns 
seated  himself  and  looked  about  him  with  pleasure  at  the 
beautiful  pictures  and  other  gems  of  art  that  decorated 
the  room.  His  nature  was  peculiarly  receptive  ;  and  just 
now  he  gave  himself  up  wholly  to  the  things  and  circum- 
stances around  him,  and  was  willing  that  the  stream  of 
passing  scenes  and  events  should  flow  in  upon  him  un- 
checked. As  he  himself  had  said,  he  had  given  his  life 
to  his  country  and  no  longer  reckoned  upon  it.  He  was 
broken  off  from  his  old  pursuits,  and  felt  singularly  free 
from  care  and  responsibility.  It  seemed  to  him  that  des- 
tiny, or  Omnipotence, — for  he  had  a  happy  faith  in  the 
conscious  love  and  power  of  God, — was  managing  his  af- 
fairs. He  had  come  to  that  place  in  life  where  he  might 
simply  drift,  for  a  little  time.  We  know  he  was  energetic, 
but  he  did  not  make  himself  miserable  because  his  ener- 
gies, just  now,  were  not  needed.  He  had  no  personal 
dread  of  war,  and  his  soul  was  serene  and  happy. 

Miss  Maclvers  did  not  keep  him  waiting.  She  came  in 
and  swept  up  to  him  with  her  white  hand  extended  and 
her  beautiful  face,  which  blushed  so  easily  and  so  prettily, 
animated  with  a  cordial  welcome.  She  was  carefully 
dressed,  though  perhaps  not  with  reference  to  him,  and 
looked  altogether  elegant.  She  was  not  a  soft,  luxurious 
woman  ;  her  face  was  intelligent,  her  figure  erect,  her 
manner  dignified,  though  she  had,  also,  a  good  deal  of 


236  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

womanly  grace.  She  awoke  in  Mr.  Burns,  who  probably 
saw  her  at  her  best,  a  lofty,  refined  admiration. 

"You  found  the  way  easily,  did  you?"  she  said,  draw- 
ing up  a  chair  and  seating  herself  near  him. 

"Oh,  yes;  one  could  hardly  miss  it,"  said  he;  "there 
is  no  other  place  like  it  in  the  city." 

"No  other  high,  terraced  hill,"  said  Miss  Maclvers. 
"  I  have  always  liked  it  for  the  view." 

"Yes;  I  observed  it  as  I  came  up.  It  is  fine.  I  see 
you  have  the  whole  camping-ground  mapped  out  over 
yonder." 

Miss  Maclvers  laughed. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  and  I  take  my  opera-glass  and  fetch  it  over 
here,  sometimes,  and  inspect  it  at  my  leisure." 

"  Do  you  ?  But  you  must  drive  over  some  day  and  see 
us  at  close  quarters." 

"Yes;  papa  has  spoken  of  it.  By  the  way,  where  is 
your  Captain  Courtenay  ?  I  think  you  promised  me  an 
introduction  to  him." 

Mr.  Burns's  brows  contracted. 

"I  am  afraid  I  was  a  little  presumptuous;  the  captain 
doesn't  seem  disposed  to  go  out  much." 

Miss  Maclvers  blushed  with  chagrin,  wishing  she  had 
not  mentioned  the  subject.  The  best  she  could  do  was  to 
change  it ;  which  she  speedily  did,  and  with  so  much  tact 
that  Mr.  Burns  did  not  notice  her  embarrassment.  She 
asked  if  he  would  not  like  to  step  out  on  the  terrace. 

"  It  is  not  dark  yet,"  she  said.  "  Indeed,  it  will  not  be 
dark,  for  the  moon  is  up." 

She  preceded  him  and  took  a  light  wrap  from  the  rack 
in  the  hall  and  threw  it  around  her  shoulders.  Outside, 
on  the  steps,  stood  a  tall,  imposing,  elderly  gentleman 
with  a  narrow,  high-bred  face  and  lofty  expression.  He 
had  clear  and  rather  cold,  gray  eyes,  set  close  together. 
A  man  of  integrity  and  honest  convictions,  but  full  of 
strong  prejudices;  accustomed  to  great  deference  and 
expecting  it.  Miss  Maclvers  introduced  him  as  "papa," 
and  Mr.  Burns  addressed  him  as  "  Colonel  Maclvers." 
He  had  been  a  soldier  himself,  and  still  carried  himself 
as  one.  He  turned  courteously  and  extended  his  hand. 

"I  am  pleased   to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  he 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  237 

said,  lifting  his  hat  and  bowing  with  dignity.  "  My 
daughter  spoke  of  you  as  being  her  escort  from  Crawford, 
the  other  day;  I  must  thank  you,  sir." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  smiling  and  taking  the  of- 
fered hand  cordially,  his  easy,  modern  manners  contrast- 
ing strongly  with  the  elder  gentleman's  stately  bearing ; 
"  the  obligation  was  on  my  side." 

"Ah,  true!"  said  the  colonel.  "It  is  a  pretty  even 
exchange  when  a  gentleman  can  give  his  protection  in 
return  for  a  lady's  society.  I  remember  the  time  when  I 
liked  nothing  better  myself." 

He  turned  to  his  daughter  and  asked  if  they  could  not 
have  chairs  out  on  the  terracfe.  '"Or,  stay,"  he  contin- 
ued ;  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  damp.  Not  for  you  and  I, 
lieutenant ;  we  would  make  but  poor  soldiers  if  we  were 
afraid  of  a  little  dew !  I  was  considering  Maude." 

"Pray  don't  consider  me,  papa,"  said  Miss  Maclvers. 
"  I  am  proof  against  dampness.  Let  us  go  around  to  the 
south  side  of  the  house,  there  are  some  rustic  seats 
there." 

She  led  the  way  and  they  followed.  The  colonel 
seemed  to  regard  conversation  as  a  masculine  monopoly, 
and  left  little  room  for  his  daughter ;  which,  to  a  young 
man  of  Mr.  Burns's  chivalric  nature,  was  a  great  annoy- 
ance. The  colonel  related  many  anecdotes  of  his  soldier 
life — as  what  veteran  does  not?  "  Many  a  night,"  said 
he,  "  I  have  slept  upon  the  frozen  ground  with  only  the 
sky  above  me.  I  suppose  you  will  learn  to  do  the 
same." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  The  chief  thing  to  dread  in  war  is  not  the  fighting," 
continued  the  colonel ;  "  it's  the  weather." 

"  Yes  ;  nature  is  a  better  mother  to  all  her  other  chil- 
dren than  to  us,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "She  leaves  us  to 
our  own  devices.  Is  it  not  so?"  turning  to  Miss  Mac- 
lvers. 

"Well,  that  is  fair,  is  it  not?"  said  she,  "since  she 
gives  us  intelligence  and  means.  We  would  hardly  ex- 
change our  ingenuity  to  clothe  ourselves  for  the  plumage 
of  the  bird,  would  we?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  laughing  ?  "  it  was  an  idle  com- 


238 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


plaint."  And  added,  after  a  moment,  "All  complaining 
is  foolish,  since  we  find  that  the  balance  is  struck  every- 
where throughout  nature's  domains.  I  am  more  and 
more  convinced  of  the  evenness  of  things  every  day  of 
my  life.  We  have  no  right  to  envy — neither  do  I  think 
we  have  good  reason  to  pity — our  neighbors.  We  may 
rest  assured  that  the  affairs  of  each  life  are  properly  ad- 
justed somehow." 

"  Then  that  relieves  us  of  responsibility  about  our 
neighbors,"  said  Miss  Maclvers,  laughing. 

"No,  no,"  returned  Mr.  Burns.  "Of  course,  the 
destinies  of  men  are  not  in  our  hands.  God  rules.  But 
He  needs  us  in  His  providence.  He  needs  to  use  us  in 
His  grand  economy.  He  works  for  all  the  suffering  and 
down-trodden  through  our  humanity.  We  can  neither 
help  nor  hinder  the  great  events  of  life;  but  through  our 
moral  nature,  through  our  charity  and  generosity,  we  can 
soften  the  blow  and  soothe  the  pain." 

Having  so  delivered  himself,  Mr.  Burns  felt  that  the 
conversation  was  perhaps  taking  a  more  serious  turn  than 
the  occasion  demanded,  and  got  up  and  looked  around. 
Over  beyond  the  town  the  moon  shone  upon  the  camp- 
ing-ground, and  the  white  tents  looked  as  if  asleep  in  the 
valley.  How  peaceful,  in  its  beginning,  seemed  this  little 
thread  of  the  war. 

"  I  have  hardly  seen  a  finer  view  than  this  in  my  life- 
time," said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  I  selected  it,"  said  the  colonel,  also  rising,  "twenty 
years  ago,  when  this  town  was  but  a  little  village,  on 
account  of  the  view." 

Soon  after  they  went  into  the  house,  and  Miss  Mac- 
lvers played.  The  colonel  explained  to  Mr.  Burns,  "I 
get  quite  hungry  for  music,  sir,  when  Maude's  away;  she 
being  the  only  daughter." 

"You  have  sons?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  to  whom  it  seemed 
that  the  colonel's  remark  left  an  opening  for  the  question. 

"  No,  sir;  no,  I  have  nobody  but  Maude." 

Miss  Maclvers  was  not  an  especially  brilliant  performer, 
but  her  music  pleased  her  papa,  who,  so  long  as  there 
was  no  great  discord,  was  not  disposed  to  be  critical.  He 
gave  Mr.  Burns  an  aasy-chair,  and  reclined  his  stately 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


239 


figure  in  another,  placed  his  polished  boots  on  a  foot-rest, 
and  leaned  back,  closing  his  eyes,  and  allowed  himself  to 
drift  peacefully  away  on  the  waves  of  sweet  sound.  When 
his  musical  appetite  was  appeased,  and  Miss  Maclvers 
arose  from  the  piano,  he  at  once  left  his  chair,  and,  after 
asking  Mr.  Burns  if  he  would  have  a  cigar,  which  he 
declined,  he  bade  the  young  people  "good-night,"  cour- 
teously, and  went  out. 

A  little  later  Mr.  Burns  took  his  departure,  and  walked 
over  to  the  camp-ground  through  the  still  moonlight, 
filled  with  thoughts  of  how  beautiful  the  world  was,  how 
many  bright  nooks  and  corners  it  held,  how  many  agree- 
able people. 

"If  one  will  only  keep  himself  open  to  genial  influ- 
ences," he  soliloquized,  "one  can  take  in  worlds.  If  we 
have  the  magnet  of  attraction  in  us,  a  thousand  things 
will  spring  up  responsive  to  enlarge  and  beautify  our 
lives." 

When  he  got  back  to  his  tent  he  sat  down  and  com- 
menced a  letter  to  Wilma,  giving  her  an  account  of  his 
visit.  Miss  Maclvers,  he  said,  was  pronounced  the  most 

beautiful  and  accomplished  young  lady  in  R ,  and 

he  accounted  it  a  great  favor  to  be  permitted  to  visit  her. 
He  had  never  calculated  upon  anything  so  agreeable  in 
the  monotony  of  camp  life.  He  wondered  Wilma  had 
not  told  him  more  about  her ;  she  had  had  so  much  to  say 
of  Miss  Percy  and  Miss  Raymond  and  the  preceptress, 
but  so  little  of  this  imperial  Miss  Maclvers. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  her  here,  Wilma,"  he  wrote; 
"she  was  not  properly  'set'  in  that  wretched  little  board- 
ing-house sitting-room.  (By  the  way,  couldn't  you  find 
pleasanter  quarters  in  Crawford  ?)  Here,  surrounded  by 
all  the  elegancies  and  refinements  of  her  beautiful  home, 
she  is  a  princess." 

It  will  hardly  surprise  anybody  that  Wilma's  heart  did 
not  respond,  but  throbbed  despairingly.  But  Mr.  Burns 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  her, — never  dreamed  that  he  hurt 
her.  He  simply  wrote,  as  he  had  always  done,  what  was 
uppermost,  the  things  that  most  pleased  and  interested 
him.  Had  Wilma  complained  he  would  have  been  in- 
dignant. He  rather  prided  himself  on  the  purity  of  his 


240 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


soldier-life  compared  with  the  lives  of  most  of  his  fellow- 
officers.  He  stooped  to  nothing  coarse  and  low  any  more 
than  he  had  done  in  his  chaste  student  life;  and  few 
young  men  had  been  so  blameless  in  their  college  career 
as  he. 

He  got  speedily  into  the  habit  of  spending  his  evenings 
with  Miss  Maclvers.  Sometimes  he  escorted  her  to  the 
theatre  and  opera.  They  never  spoke  of  Wilma.  Miss  Mac- 
lvers ignored  her.  And  perhaps  Mr.  Burns  unconsciously 
felt  that  Wilma  would  not  be  in  keeping  with  the  elegant 
atmosphere  of  her  home  and  the  society  she  moved  in. 
Into  that  society  he  himself  became  soon  initiated,  though 
without  effort  on  his  part,  and  found  himself  lionized  to 
an  extent  that  was  surprising  if  not  altogether  delightful. 
There  was  a  charm  in  his  youth  and  freshness  and  in  his 
originality  of  thought  that  won  him  numerous  friends 
and  admirers.  Moreover  he  was  so  pure,  so  unsullied. 
Many  brilliant  women  who  courted  him  felt  rebuked  for 
their  own  unworthy  lives  by  the  guilelessness  of  his.  He 
suspected  no  evil  where  there  was  much  deceit  and  treach- 
ery, and  heart-burning  and  despair.  The  world  was  fresh 
and  sweet  to  him. 

Of  course  his  letters  to  Wilma  took  the  tone  and  color 
of  his  new  experience ;  and  rumors  reached  her  of  his 

popularity  at  R ,  which  made  her  heart  thrill  with 

pride  while  yet  it  ached  with  anguish.  It  was  a  new  de- 
velopment in  her  Charley  to  become  a  star  in  the  social 
system.  He  had  always  been  praised  for  being  talented 
and  scholarly,  but  never  for  being  brilliant  in  society  and 
fascinating  to  ladies.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  never 
understood  him,  had  never  foreseen  his  splendid  possibil- 
ities. It  was  selfish,  it  was  presumptuous,  in  her  to  feel 
hurt  that  she  was  now  often  crowded  out  of  his  brilliant 
life,  to  the  extent  of  his  forgetting  to  write  to  her  at  the 
time  which  for  years  had  been  set  apart  for  writing  to 
her. 

It  became  a  dread  for  her  to  go  to  the  post-office  those 
days  when  she  ought  to  hear  from  him.  The  agony 
of  suspense,  while  she  stood  waiting  to  see  whether  the 
postmistress  would  hand  her  out  the  familiar  letter  or 
give  her  head  its  little  negative  shake,  was  almost  more 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


241 


than  she  could  bear.  Yet  she  never  blamed  him.  She 
exalted  him  so  much  above  herself  that  if  he  should  cease 
altogether  to  care  for  her,  was  it  a  thing  to  be  wondered 
at? 

Miss  Belmont  said  to  her  one  day,  "  My  dear,  you  must 
go  home  ;  you  have  studied  too  hard  ;  you  will  be  sick." 

But  Wilma  could  not  bear  the  thought.  How  dreadful 
would  be  to  her  now  the  old,  quiet,  solitary  life  at  Hazel- 
ville  !  Even  Fred,  kind-hearted,  rough  Fred,  was  gone. 
He  had  gratified  his  patriotism  by  enlisting  as  a  drummer- 
boy.  He  wrote  to  Wilma  that  he  thought  he  could  serve 
his  country  as  well  with  a  drum-stick  as  with  a  musket. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ONE  afternoon  Miss  Maclvers,  in  company  with  her 
stately  papa,  drove  out  to  the  camp-ground  and  around 
among  the  tents.  It  was  warm  and  pleasant,  and  the 
soldiers  were  lounging  about  in  and  out.  A  number  of 
visitors  were  upon  the  ground,  and  a  band  was  playing 
and  flags  were  waving.  Miss  Maclvers  put  aside  her  veil, 
and  leaned  forward  and  looked  about  with  interest,  it 
being  her  first  visit  to  the  camp. 

"Look  yonder,  Maude;  there  is  your  friend  the  lieu- 
tenant," said  the  colonel. 

Mr.  Burns  and  Captain  Courtenay  were  walking  slowly 
back  and  forth  before  their  rather  pretentious  tent,  the 
captain  smoking  a  cigar.  They  were  the  two  most  dis- 
tinguished-looking figures  upon  the  ground.  Miss  Mac- 
lvers drew  back  and  blushed  deeply  in  passing.  Captain 
Courtenay  removed  his  cigar  and  paid  a  soldier's  usual 
tributary  glance  of  admiration  to  a  pretty  face  ;  though 
Captain  Courtenay's  glance  was  not  altogether  flattering 
to  women.  Mr.  Burns  gave  the  beautiful  military  salute 
with  his  own  individual  grace,  and  Miss  Maclvers  bowed. 
There  was  this  difference  between  the  two  young  men  : 
Captain  Courtenay  doubted  all  women,  and  Mr.  Burns 
believed  in  all. 


242  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

The  colonel  would  have  drawn  up  and  spoken  to  them, 
but  that  Miss  Maclvers,  seeing  his  intention,  urged  him  in 
a  low  voice  to  drive  on. 

"So,"  said  Captain  Courtenay,  pleasantly,  in  a  pecu- 
liarly slow,  indolent  way  he  had  of  speaking,  "  that  is 
your  imperial  Miss  Maclvers?" 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  ?  "  said  Mr.  Burns,  surprised ; 
"had  you  seen  her  before?" 

"No.     I  inferred  it." 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Mr.  Burns  was  getting  him- 
self ready  for  his  accustomed  visit,  the  captain  said, 
"You  asked  me  some  time  ago  to  call  with  you  and  get 
introduced  to  Miss  Maclvers;  is  it  a  standing  invita- 
tion?" 

"If  you  choose  to  consider  it  so,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  a 
little  coldly. 

"Then  you  may  take  me  this  evening." 

If  Mr.  Burns  had  seen  any  way  out  of  it  he  would  have 
declined.  He  admired  Captain  Courtenay  extremely, 
and  saw  no  flaw  in  his  splendid  character  except  his  con- 
temptuous regard  for  women.  He  was  honorable  and 
proud-spirited,  asking  no  aid  of  office  or  rank  to  lift  him 
up.  In  his  own  opinion,  fully  as  much  as  in  the  opinion 
of  others,  he  would  have  graced  any  office  or  any  rank. 
He  was  a  general  favorite  with  the  soldiers,  whom  he 
treated  with  a  dignified  courtesy  that  won  their  high 
respect.  He  was  always  elected  to  take  command  in 
drilling  and  in  dress-parade,  being  accomplished  in  mili- 
tiry  tactics  and  having  a  marvellous  power  of  com- 
manding. 

On  the  way  to  call  upon  Miss  Maclvers,  he  took  his 
handsome  black  beard  in  his  hand,  and  turned  to  Mr. 
Burns  abruptly,  and  said,  "  Do  not  think  me'curious,  but 
are  you  in  love  with  Miss  Maclvers?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  unhesitatingly.  "Why,  do 
you  intend  to  fall  in  love  with  her?" 

"  No.    I  merely  wished  to  know  how  the  matter  stood." 

They  were  let  in  as  usual  by  the  ebony  attendant,  and 
Mr.  Burns,  being  a  warm  and  admiring  friend  of  both 
parties,  felt  a  good  deal  of  anxiety  as  to  how  they  would 
impress  each  other.  He  had  got  an  idea,  somehow  (how 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


243 


subtly  these  things  creep  into  our  consciousness !),  that 
there  was  a  sort  of  antagonism  between  them ;  a  sort  of 
defiance  on  Miss  Maclvers's  part,  and  a  disposition  on  the 
part  of  Captain  Courtenay  to  take  it  up.  And  he  meant 
in  bringing  them  together,  if  possible,  to  get  rid  of  that, 
and  establish  them  on  an  easy,  pleasant  footing  with  each 
other.  "Such  things  can  be  done,"  he  told  himself,  "by 
an  adroit  mutual  friend,"  and  rather  plumed  himself  on 
his  tact, — a  quality,  by  the  way,  which  he  did  not  often 
exercise.  But  at  the  moment  of  performing  the  ceremony 
of  introduction  between  them,  —  being  struck  anew  by 
the  softness  and  dignity  and  gentle  deference  of  Captain 
Courtenay's  manner,  and  the  rare  beauty  and  grace  of 
Miss  Maclvers,  and  the  proud  bearing  of  both, — there 
seemed  to  flash  a  challenge  between  them  as  their  splendid 
eyes  met.  Miss  Maclvers  dropped  hers,  with  a  blush  that 
did  not  die  away  directly,  but  settled  in  her  beautiful 
cheeks,  and  burned  there  throughout  the  evening.  Cap- 
tain Courtenay's  visit  was  a  surprise  to  her,  and  of  course 
he  held  the  more  advantageous  position.  It  occurred  to 
Mr.  Burns  how  well  matched  they  were,  either  for  conflict 
or  harmony. 

Captain  Courtenay  seldom  removed  his  eyes  from  Miss 
Maclvers's  face ;  and  to  Mr.  Burns,  watching  them  both 
narrowly,  it  seemed  that  his  glance  conveyed  the  most 
respectful  deference  and  the  subtlest  flattery  that  an  ac- 
complished man  could  throw  into  the  finest  pair  of  dark 
eyes  in  the  world.  Miss  Maclvers  felt  the  power  of  it. 
It  penetrated  her  like  music,  making  every  motion  of  her 
beautiful,  proud  form  more  graceful  and  rhythmic,  and 
every  tone  of  her  sweet  voice  more  sweetly  modulated. 
She  played  for  them,  and  her  fingers,  tingling  to  the  very 
tips  with  the  new,  strange  something  that  was  infused  into 
her  veins,  seemed  inspired.  Mr.  Burns  had  neve*r  thought 
she  played  well  before.  The  evening  passed  rapidly  and 
enchantingly.  Mr.  Burns  certainly  had  the  gratification 
of  seeing  his  two  friends  at  their  best ;  they  each  exerted 
a  power  upon  the  other  to  bring  out  their  most  brilliant 
hues. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  camp  he  endeavored  to  get 
the  captain's  opinion  of  Miss  Maclvers,  but  he  evaded 


244  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

all  questionings  and  was  unusually  silent,  which  Mr. 
Burns  regarded  as  a  favorable  indication.  "She  will 
raise  the  standard  of  womanhood  in  his  estimation,"  he 
thought,  with  pride  in  his  ladylike  friend. 

Once  Captain  Courtenay  made  this  significant  remark  : 
"  I  like  proud,  high-spirited  women  who  can  hold  their 
own." 

At  first  Mr.  Burns  was  not  altogether  comfortable  in 
the  thought  of  being  eclipsed  ;  but  detecting  himself  in 
that  state,  he  pulled  up  short  and  confronted  the  situation. 
"  Bah  !  I  am  not  going  to  enact  the  dog  in  the  manger," 
he  said.  "  I'll  step  aside  and  give  the  captain  a  fair  field." 
He  did  step  aside,  and  found  himself  a  little  lonely  and 
a  little  low-spirited.  He  gradually  left  off  going  to  Miss 
Maclvers's,  and  evening  after  evening  the  captain  went 
alone.  His  thoughts  turned  back  to  Wilma  with  some 
compunction,  and  he  began  writing  to  her  with  more 
regularity  and  at  greater  length.  But  to  Wilma,  who  had 
known  him  so  long,  and  whose  discernment — sharpened 
by  her  great  affection  and  her  great  fear — was  so  acute 
in  all  that  pertained  to  him,  there  seemed  to  be  little 
heart  in  his  letters, — very  little  of  that  inner  life  of  his 
that  she  liked  so  well.  He  wrote  much  less  of  himself 
and  more  of  trivial  outside  matters.  There  was  a  light- 
ness, an  affectation  of  levity  that  she  thought  was  put  on 
to  cover  up  a  growing  and  melancholy  indifference.  The 
dread  forced  itself  upon  her  sometimes,  in  these  sad  days, 
that  she  must  give  him  up.  But  it  was  beyond  her  strength ; 
she  could  not.  Every  tender  word  he  wrote  brought  tears 
to  her  eyes,  because  she  felt  that  it  was  designed  to  com- 
fort her,  merely,  and  not  written  in  the  fulness  of  love  as 
he  had  once  written  tender  words. 

A  few  nights  after  Captain  Courtenay's  introduction  to 
Miss  Maclvers  a  grand  ball  was  given  in  honor  of  the  several 
regiments  encamped  there,  and  Mr.  Burns  dwelt  at  some 
length  upon  it  in  one  of  his  letters.  He  himself  had 
attended  it,  though  not  to  dance.  He  wrote  to  Wilma : 
"  I  can't  dance.  I  don't  believe  I  want  to  learn.  I  know 
I  should  never  be  a  good  dancer.  The  idea  of  putting  on 
*  pumps'  and  hopping  about  over  the  floor, — well,  it  ain't 
my  style.  I  believe  you  dance  (?),  and  you  shall  teach  me 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


^45 


how.  We  will  have  a  music-box  and  wind  it  up,  and  you 
and  I  can  dance  until  it  runs  down.  Would  that  be  nice, 
or  wouldn't  it?  Well,  I  am  happy  to  say  that  once  in 
my  life  I  have  attended  a  grand  ball, — like  De  Quincey, — 
where  the  brilliant  lights,  the  enchanting  music,  the  beau- 
tiful forms,  and  flashing  jewelry  conspired  to  make  a  veri- 
table fairy-land.  One  has  to  witness  such  a  thing  and  get 
imbued  with  the  half  sad,  half  joyous  spirit  of  it  to  be 
able  exactly  to  appreciate  it.  I  can't  say  that  I  get  as 
deeply  intoxicated  as  some  people  do ;  but  it  is  a  fact, 
nevertheless,  that  all  the  next  day  the  bewildering  music 
was  still  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  bewildering  forms  were 
revolving  before  me  in  the  intricate  mazes  of  certain 
labyrinthine  dances.  By  the  way,  I  don't  know  a  single 
figure  of  any  one  dance.  I  don't  care  to  know.  I  like 
the  mystery  of  it, — a  mystery  as  beautiful  and  incompre- 
hensible as  the  wonderful  dresses  looped  and  festooned 
about  the  exquisite  figures.  I  fancy  I  enjoyed  the  ball  as 
much  as  anybody  else  there.  There  are  always  a  good 
many  ladies  who  don't  dance;  and  one's  uniform  is  a 
passport  to  speedy  acquaintance.  It  doesn't  do  for 
people  to  stand  on  ceremony  with  us,  because  they  will 
only  have  us  such  a  little  while.  I  have  always  thought 
there  was  a  great  waste  of  time  in  getting  acquainted  with 
people.  We  throw  up  a  barricade  of  conventionality 
around  us  and  keep  people  off,  instead  of  trying  to  get 
at  them.  If  a  man  will  open  himself  to  me  and  allow 
me  to  do  the  same,  it  won't  take  long  to  find  out  whether 
we  are  going  the  same  way  and  can  travel  together,  or 
vice  versa,  and  pass  on  in  our  respective  courses. 

"  Captain  Courtenay  escorted  Miss  Maclvers  to  the 
ball,  and  they  were  the  'observed  of  all  observers.' 
Can  there  be  a  beauty  superior  to  human  beauty  when. we 
see  it  not  only  in  physical  perfection,  but  spiritualized  and 
refined  to  the  highest  degree?  I  think  not.  By  the  way, 
I  have  not  spoken  of  these  two  before  in  the  same  con- 
nection, have  I  ?  I  suspect  Miss  Maclvers  employed  your 
humble  Charley  as  a  stepping-stone  to  Captain  Courte- 
nay, if  the  sequel  proves  anything.  A  pretty  long  step  ! 
But  I  am  not  sorry  to  be  the  instrument  of  such  a  happy 
consummation.  I  never  before  saw  a  union  of  such  splen- 

21* 


2  46  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

did  masculine  beauty  and  feminine  loveliness.  The  cap- 
tain made  a  feint  of  asking  my  permission  to  take  Miss 
Maclvers  to  the  ball.  I  told  him  I  stood  ready  to  resign 
my  claims  (if  I  had  any)  at  a  moment's  warning.  From 
politic  motives,  partly,  I  must  confess.  I  would  not  risk 
a  rivalry  with  the  captain,  who  is  a  king  and  conqueror 
wherever  he  goes.  Besides,  I  am  too  loyal  a  subject  of 
his  to  wage  war  against  him  even  for  the  smiles  of  woman, 
except  my  own  darling's." 

Which  was  a  very  sweet  and  tender  sentiment  to  end  a 
letter  with.  But  Wilma  had  got  to  be  such  a  sensitive, 
exacting  little  wretch — she  told  herself — that  she  took 
exception  even  to  the  style  of  chirography  in  which  that 
closing  line  was  written,  being  a  careless  scrawl  across 
the  whole  width  of  the  page.  It  was  one  of  Mr.  Burns's 
characteristics  that  he  always  used  the  largest  sized  letter 
paper, — a  broad,  fair  sheet.  He  felt  cramped  on  a  mod- 
erate page. 

This  was  quite  a  long  and  pleasant  and  gossipy  letter, 
and  Wilma  tried  hard  to  make  herself  believe  it  was  all 
she  could  desire.  It  occurred  to  her  after  reading  it  over 
many  times,  until  she  knew  every  line  by  heart,  to  take  it 
up  and  read  it  to  Miss  Percy,  who,  at  this  time,  was  more 
of  an  invalid  than  she  had  ever  been  before,  and  she  had 
so  little  to  interest  her.  She  reflected,  with  a  pang,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  letter  which  might  not  be  pub- 
lished in  the  newspapers  as  a  spicy  correspondence,  for 
all  it  revealed  of  her  own  and  Charley's  relation  to  each 
other,  excepting  in  that  one  line  which  she  would  sup- 
press, thinking  what  a  difficult  matter  it  was  to  invest  a 
love-scene  or  a  love-letter  with  sufficient  dignity  to  lift  it 
above  the  ridiculous  in  the  mind  of  a  disenchanted  party 
such  as  Miss  Percy  was. 

It  was  not  her  custom,  as  we  know,  to  read  Mr.  Burns's 
letters  to  any  one ;  but  she  began  to  want  to  talk  about 
him,  and  hear  others  talk  about  him  and  praise  him  to 
her;  she  began  to  want  to  reassure  herself  of  him  by  the 
impressions  made  upon  others  by  what  she,  herself,  said 
of  him.  The  fondest  deception  !  Since  she  gave  the  ut- 
most bias  in  his  favor,  in  all  that  she  said,  that  her  great 
love  was  capable  of. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


247 


Miss  Percy,  lying  back  upon  her  pillow,  transparent  as 
a  waxen  image, — and  much  more  beautiful  because  of  the 
soul  within  her,  which,  in  spite  of  its  pride  and  bitter- 
ness, seemed  at  times  very  noble  and  lovely  to  Wilma, — 
expressed  even  a  greater  pleasure  and  interest  in  the  pros- 
pect of  the  letter  than  she  had  expected. 

"  Raise  me  up  a  little,  dear,  before  you  begin,"  she 
said,  and  Wilma  put  her  loving  arm  underneath  the  fragile 
form  and  raised  her  up.  She  was  not  much  to  lift.  Then 
she  sat  down  by  the  bed-side  and  besan  reading  in  a  low, 
slightly  agitated  voice,  and  had  nearly  finished  when  Miss 
Percy  threw  up  her  hands  and  uttered  a  cry.  Wilma 
dropped  the  letter  and  sprang  up  and  bent  over  her, 
trembling.  The  white  face  was  terribly  convulsed. 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Percy,  what  shall  I  do?" 

She  again  slipped  her  arm  under  the  pillow  and  raised 
her  up.  A  little  stream  of  blood  oozed  from  her  lips  and 
ran  down,  staining  her  white  garments  and  the  counter- 
pane with  red.  Wilma,  terrified,  laid  her  down  again 
and  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  calling  for  help.  Some 
of  the  servants  heard  her  and  came  running  through  the 
hall.  In  a  few  minutes  the  whole  household  was  in  the 
room,  and  a  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  everything  was  done 
that  could  be  thought  of  before  his  arrival.  When  he 
came  he  could  advise  nothing  but  perfect  quiet  and  the 
closest  care. 

"  Was  this  hemorrhage  brought  on  by  any  sudden  shock 
or  excitement?"  he  asked  of  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

"Not  that  I  know  of;  Miss  Lynne  was  the  only  one 
who  was  with  her.  Do  you  know  of  anything,  Miss 
Lynne?" 

"No,"  said  Wilma  ;  "  I  was  reading  her  a  letter  when 
she  screamed  out,  and  I  raised  her  up  and  the  blood  began 
to  flow." 

"  Was  it  a  letter  that  she  had  received  ?  There  might 
have  been  something  in  it  that  affected  her,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  the  letter  was  mine,"  Wilma  answered. 

"Strange!"  said  the  doctor,  and  took  up  his  hat  and 
went  out.  The  servants  and  various  members  of  the 
family,  who  had  waited  to  hear  the  medical  opinion, 


2  48  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

followed  him,  and  only  Mrs.  Pettibone  and  Wilma  re- 
mained. 

After  a  very  long  time,  as  it  seemed,  Miss  Percy  opened 
her  eyes — her  face  still  contracted  as  with  great  inward 
pain,  though  whether  of  body  or  mind  none  could  say — 
and  beckoned  to  Wilma,  who  instantly  bent  over  her, 
never  having  left  the  bed-side.  She  made  some  slight, 
feeble  motion  with  her  hand,  and  when  Wilma  put  hers 
within  it,  the  slender  fingers  closed  around  it,  and  a 
more  peaceful  expression  came  into  the  pained  face,  and 
the  blue  eyes  closed  again.  By  and  by,  it  seemed  that 
she  slept, — the  doctor  having  administered  a  soothing  po- 
tion,— though  with  a  continual  low  moaning,  showing  that 
she  still  suffered.  During  the  day  a  number  of  persons, 
including  the  preceptress  and  Mr.  Ingraham,  came  into 
the  hall  below  and  were  heard  to  inquire  softly  and  then 
go  away,  no  one  being  allowed  to  come  up.  All  day  and 
all  night  she  lay,  scarcely  moving,  her  eyes  closed  and 
taking  no  notice  of  what  was  going  on  around  her. 
Wilma  watched  beside  her,  still  holding  her  hand  and 
never  closing  her  eyes;  never,  hardly,  taking  them  from 
the  troubled  face  all  the  long  night.  In  the  morning, 
Mrs.  Pettibone,  who  was  a  kindly-disposed,  though 
rather  a  purse-proud,  elderly  lady,  made  her  go  down  to 
breakfast  with  the  family,  and  told  her  she  had  better 
slip  out  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  She  put  on  her 
hat  and  went  into  the  garden ;  she  must  not  go  far  lest 
something  might  happen.  She  sat  down  upon  a  rustic 
seat,  folded  her  hands  idly  in  her  lap,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
vacantly  upon  the  ground.  How  sad  the  world  seemed, 
and  what  a  little  time  it  had  taken  it  to  change  from 
brightness  to  gloom.  A  year  ago  how  happy  she  was  ! 
She  thought  of  Fred  away  off  in  the  South,  of  Charley, 
of  Charley's  mother,  of  Miss  Percy,  and  life  seemed  very, 
very  dark.  Some  one  called  her,  and  she  sprang  up  and 
ran  into  the  house  and  flew  up-stairs  to  Miss  Percy's 
room.  Miss  Percy  was  dead  !  The  little  stream  of 
blood  that  trickled  from  her  lips  marked  its  way  upon 
her  neck,  and  again  stained  her  white  garments  and  the 
sheet  and  counterpane  with  red. 

Wilma  threw  herself  down  by  the  bed-side  in  violent, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


249 


uncontrollable  grief,  that  those  who  stood  about  wondered 
at  and  could  not  pacify.  Poor  child,  she  was  weeping 
for  all  her  sorrows !  She  could  listen  to  nothing,  hear 
nothing,  until  the  storm  was  over.  Then  she  arose  and 
turned  away,  and  went  down-stairs  and  home  to  Mrs. 
Woods's,  and  told  them  the  sad  news,  and  then  took  a 
walk  by  herself,  hardly  knowing  whither  her  steps  tended, 
feeling,  with  indescribable  anguish,  that  every  day  a  door 
was  closing  against  her ;  for  people  had  been  her  doors 
and  windows,  through  which  she  went  out  into  a  great, 
sunny  world  of  love  and  trust,  and  was  happy  ;  she  had 
not  learned  that  there  are  other  doors  and  other  win- 
dows. Who  of  us  does,  until  we  are  locked  up  within  our 
wretched  self  and  forced  to  find  a  way  through  our  suffer- 
ing out  into  the  light?  By  and  by,  she  came  to  the 
little  brook  and  sat  down  upon  the  log,  alone,  where  she 
and  Charley  had  sat  together  a  short  time  before,  and 
leaned  her  aching  head  against  a  projecting  limb,  wishing 
she,  too,  might  die,  and  so  went  to  sleep.  When  she 
awoke,  Miss  Belmont  was  sitting  beside  her. 

'Were  you  quite  tired  out,  dear?"  she  asked. 

'  Why,  was  I  asleep?"  said  Wilma. 

'  Yes ;  I  suppose  you  dropped  asleep  without  knowing 

it. ' 

'You  have  heard?"  said  Wilma,  looking  up. 

'Yes;  and  I  came,  immediately,  to  find  you;  they 
told  me  which  way  you  came.  It  has  been  hard  for  you, 
my  poor  child." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Wilma;  "I  was  not  thinking  of  that, 
— of  myself." 

"  I  know.  But  it  is  right  some  one  should  think  of  you. 
Mrs.  Pettibone  told  me  how  faithful  you  were  throughout." 

"  If  it  could  only  have  done  some  good  !"  said  Wilma, 
her  tears  falling  again. 

"It  did  do  good,  dear;  you  did  her  good  all  along. 
You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with,  and  so  your 
sorrow  can  have  no  bitterness  in  it.  Miss  Percy  was  very 
unhappy ;  she  had  no  resources  within  herself, — I  doubt 
if  she  ever  would  have  had.  Her  sorrow,  whatever  it  was, 
had  eaten  into  her  soul  like  a  canker.  She  has  told  me, 
many  times,  how  much  she  longed  for  this  change,  this 
i* 


250 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


rest  that  has  come  to  her.  I  was  up  in  her  room  a  little 
while  ago,  and  she  looks,  oh,  so  peaceful !  We  ought  to 
be  thankful  that  it  is  all  over." 

"  Oh,  but  it  seems  so  hard  !"  said  Wilma.  "  She  was 
so  young,  and  so  beautiful  and  gifted." 

"But  remember,  dear,"  said  Miss  Belmont,  "  it  was 
her  life  that  was  hard,  not  her  death.  That,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  merciful.  Shall  we  not  believe  it  is  all  for  the  best? 
At  any  rate,  she  is  quite  beyond  us  now, — our  help  and 
our  tears.  But  she  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Great  Father. 
Can  we  not  trust  our  dear  treasures  with  Him,  my  child  ?" 

Wilma  remembered  what  Charley  had  said  ;  that  heaven 
was  a  safe  place  to  put  one's  friends,  and  the  thought,  for 
a  moment,  thrilled  her  sad  heart.  There  will  be  no 
changes  there  !  everything  will  be  safe  and  lasting.  No 
death,  no  disappointments,  no  loss. 

Miss  Belmont  persuaded  her  to  go  back  home.  She, 
herself,  went  with  her  and  spent  a  part  of  the  day  at  Mrs. 
Woods's,  and  tried  to  beguile  her  into  a  more  cheerful 
mood  ;  and,  indeed,  thought  it  strange  she  did  not  succeed 
better.  She  did  not  know  all  the  causes  of  Wilma's  de- 
jection. She  made,  poor  child  (without  knowing  it),  a 
cloak  of  her  friend's  death — though  her  grief  for  that  was 
deep  and  sincere — to  cover  other  wounds.  After  Miss 
Belmont  left  her  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  line  to  Charley, 
telling  him  of  her  bereavement ;  and  that  gave  her  more 
comfort  than  anything  else.  She  carried  it  to  the  post- 
office,  reflecting  that  he  would  receive  it  in  a  few  hours, 
and  perhaps  answer  it. 

Mr.  Burns  was  getting  himself  ready  to  attend  the  fu- 
neral of  Miss  Maclvers's  father,  who  had  dropped  dead, 
suddenly,  in  the  street  one  morning,  and  was  to  be  buried 
— being  an  old  soldier — with  military  honors,  when  a  sol- 
dier brought  him  the  sad  little  letter.  He  tore  off  the 
envelope  hastily  and  read  it,  his  brows  contracting. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Captain  Courtenay.  "You  seem 
disturbed.  Have  you  had  bad  news?" 

"Yes,  rather,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  going  on  with  his  dress- 
ing. "A  friend  of  mine  writes  me  of  the  death  of  a 
friend  of  hers.  A  singular  creature,  but  capable  of  in- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


251 


spiring  a  great  deal  of  affection,  it  seems  to  me.  There, 
read  it  if  you  like,"  tossing  him  the  letter. 

Captain  Courtenay  took  it  up  and  glanced  at  it  care- 
lessly, changed  countenance,  and  got  up  abruptly  and 
went  out,  crushing  the  letter  in  his  hand.  Presently  he 
came  in  again.  "  I  shall  not  be  able  to  attend  the 
funeral,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  obliged  to  go  out  of  town." 

"  Why,  good  heavens  !"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  What  shall 
we  do  without  you?" 

"  Get  some  one  else." 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE  morning  following  Miss  Percy's  death,  early, — 
before  it  was  fairly  light  in  fact, — Wilma  arose  and  dressed 
herself,  and  stole  out  of  the  house  and  down  to  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone's.  She  knew  it  was  her  last  chance  to  spend  o^e 
more  hour  alone  with  her  friend.  In  a  little  while  people 
would  be  thronging  in, — for  everybody  was  curious  about 
Miss  Percy, — and  would  come,  like  vultures,  to  devour  the 
lovely,  proud  face  with  their  hungry  eyes,  assured  that  no 
flashing  of  the  azure  orbs  could  rebuke  their  curiosity 
now.  She  felt,  as  she  hurried  along,  that  she  would  like 
to  stand  between  the  poor,  dead  face  that  could  no  longer 
defend  itself,  and  the  eager,  frying  world,  and  keep  it  off. 
But  that  could  not  be.  The  church  and  the  Pettibones 
had  taken  it  in  hand,  and  there  was  to  be  an  imposing 
funeral.  Knowing  that  her  friend  Bridget  was  an  early 
riser,  she  went  around  to  the  back  of  the  house,  intending 
to  get  let  in  at  the  kitchen-door. 

Bridget  had  just  straightened  herself  up  in  bed,  and 
was  in  the  act  of  twisting  up  her  hair  and  fastening  it  with 
a  comb,  which  she  took  out  at  night  and  laid  on  the  little 
stand  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  when  she  heard  the  timid 
knock. 

"  Who's  there?"  she  demanded,  a  little  defiantly,  paus- 
ing in  her  toilet-making,  with  her  hands  up  to  her  head. 

"It  is  Wilma.     Will  you  please  let  me  in?" 


252 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


She  bounced  out  of  bed  directly,  and  hurried  out  and 
opened  the  door  without  ceremony,  revealing  herself  in 
her  calico  night-dress,  her  broad,  bare  feet  flattened  on 
the  kitchen-floor. 

"  Good  gracious  me,  child  !  an'  what  brought  ye  out  i' 
the  night  the  like  o'  this?" 

"Oh,  it  is  morning,"  said  Wilma.  "See!  it  is  almost 
broad  day  !  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Percy  once  more, 
Bridget,  before  they  all  came  in.  Will  you  let  me  go 
up?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  to  be  sure.  Go  right  up  ;  ye  know  the  way 
yerself.  The  pratty  lady  !" 

Wilma  made  her  way  silently  through  the  darkened 
rooms,  and  along  the  hall  and  up  the  long,  carpeted 
stairs.  She  pushed  open  Miss  Percy's  door  and  went  in, 
closing  it  softly.  Everything  was  changed.  The  crimson 
curtains  at  the  windows  had  been  taken  down,  and  were 
replaced  by  thick,  stiff  white  ones,  that  hung  in  still  folds 
and  looked  as  if  chiselled  in  marble.  The  bed,  smooth 
and  white,  was  drawn  to  the  farther  side  of  the  room,  and 
Miss  Percy  lay  upon  it  peacefully,  all  trouble  smoothed  out 
of  her  perfect  face  and  the  great  stillness  of  death  upon  it. 
Even  the  little  ringlets  on  her  forehead  were  motionless, 
unstirred  by  the  faintest  breath  of  air.  Wilma  approached 
softly,  and  looked  down  upon  the  sweet  face,  that  soon 
became  obscured  by  the  fast,  fast-falling  tears.  By  and 
by  she  knelt  down  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  so  lost  herself  in  a  sad  revery  as  to  be  insensible  to 
all  external  sounds  and  motions.  Sounds  and  motions 
there  were  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stairs ;  subdued  voices, 
muffled  footsteps,  and  the  soft  opening  and  closing  of 
doors;  then  again  perfect  quiet. 

Suddenly  it  was  borne  in  upon  her  consciousness  that 
another  presence  beside  the  dead  was  in  the  room,  and, 
with  a  great  throbbing  of  heart,  she  raised  her  head  and 
looked  up.  A  tall  figure,  wrapped  in  a  dark  cloak,  stood 
opposite  to  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  gazing  down, 
as  she  had  done,  on  the  face  of  the  sleeper.  Presently 
the  cloak  was  thrown  back,  revealing  a  soldier's  dark-blue 
uniform,  a  shoulder-strap,  and  a  sword-hilt ;  and  a  white, 
beautifully-shaped  man's  hand  was  put  out  to  touch,  with 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


253 


a  curious  but  gentle  touch,  the  marble  forehead  and  the 
delicate  ringlets  of  hair.  The  face  looking  down  was 
blanched  and  white  as  the  dead  face,  with  just  the  differ- 
ence there  is  between  the  whiteness  of  life  and  health  and 
the  whiteness  of  death.  It  had  strong  contrasts  of  hair 
and  eyes  and  heavy  brows  and  lashes,  and  was  the  finest 
masculine  face  Wilma  had  ever  seen.  Its  striking  beauty, 
as  much  as  the  shock  of  finding  it  there  when  she  looked 
up,  held  her  silent,  until  the  dark  eyes,  travelling  slowly 
through  the  dimness  of  the  room,  took  her  in,  and  widened 
with  surprise  and  inquiry.  Then  she  arose  and  stammered, 
"  I — you  frightened  me,  sir;  I  did  not  hear  you  come  in." 

"You  must  have  been  profoundly  absorbed,"  he  re- 
turned ;  and  though  the  words  were  ungracious,  they 
were  uttered  in  a  deep  voice,  exquisitely  modulated  as 
though  it  had  been  carefully  trained  to  convey  the  finest 
and  subtlest  shades  of  meaning. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  hers?"  Wilma  asked,  in  spite  of 
the  awe  with  which  she  regarded  him,  and  turning,  as  she 
spoke,  to  leave  the  room. 

"  I — yes,  I  am  a  friend  of  hers,"  he  answered.  "  Pray 
don't  go  away;  I  am  about  to  go  myself;"  and  without 
another  glance  at  the  dead  he  drew  his  cloak  around 
him  and  crossed  the  room  with  a  gliding,  smooth,  and 
noiseless  motion,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  door-knob ; 
then  stopped  and  looked  back. 

"Is  the  funeral  to  take  place  to-day?"  he  asked,  in  an 
indescribably  gentle  voice;  and  when  Wilma  answered, 
"Yes,"  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  murmured  something 
that  sounded  to  her  like  "  My  poor  Ginevra  !"  but  she  was 
not  sure.  He  went  directly  down-stairs  and  out  the  front 
door,  meeting  no  one. 

The  sun  was  up,  but  it  was  Sunday  morning,  and  Craw- 
ford was  not  yet  wide  awake.  A  few  hours  later  the 
church  bells  began  to  ring,  and  then  to  toll ;  and  Miss 
Percy's  costly  coffin  (she  had  left  ample  means  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  an  elaborate  funeral)  was  carried  into  the 
church  followed  by  a  vast  procession,  at  the  head  of  which 
went  the  minister,  in  his  sable  garments,  chanting  these 
words,  weighted  with  the  echoes  of  so  many  solemn  voices, 
on  so  many  solemn  occasions,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 

22 


254 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


the  life."  And  so  borne  about  from  house  to  church  and 
from  church  to  burial-ground,  and  preached  over  and 
chanted  over,  and  gazed  upon,  the  beautiful,  haughty 
stranger,  whom  nobody  knew,  and  whose  feet  were  so 
weary,  was  laid  to  rest,  and  left  for  the  daisies  to  bloom 
over. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

SHORTLY  before  Mr.  Burns's  regiment  left  R ,  Miss 

Maclvers,  who  had  no  near  relatives,  shut  up  her  beautiful 
home  and  went  away,  much  to  everybody's  surprise.  She 
was  supposed  to  be  engaged  to  Captain  Courtenay, — they 
had  been  so  openly  devoted  to  each  other, — and  it  was 
strange  she  should  go  out  of  town  so  long  as  he  remained. 
To  be  sure  (there  were  those  who  had  watched  closely 
and  were  posted),  he  did  not  visit  her  at  all  after  her 
father's  death,  though  they  had  once  been  seen  walking 
together  in  the  dusk  of  a  moonless  evening.  And  one 
shrewd  female  detective,  who  could  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether, averred  that  it  was  by  Miss  Maclvers's  own  ap- 
pointment. She  had  written  him  a  note,  which  he  had 
answered,  and  then  followed  the  meeting.  Those  who 
saw  her  said  she  was  greatly  changed.  She  grew  white 
and  thin,  and  seemed  quite  broken-hearted,  though  her 
step  was  as  proud  and  her  bearing  as  haughty  as  ever.  Her 
father's  death  was  a  heavy  blow. 

Mr.  Burns,  with  friendly  sympathy,  went  one  evening 
to  see  her,  but  she  begged  to  be  excused  ;  saying,  in  a 
little  twisted  note  which  she  sent  down  to  him  by  a  ser- 
vant, that  she  was  not  well.  She  thanked  him  kindly, 
and  he  was  quite  touched  by  her  evident  deep  grief. 

A  day  or  two  after  he  heard  that  she  was  gone,  and 
asked  Captain  Courtenay,  inadvertently,  if  he  knew 
where. 

"  How  the  devil  should  I  know?"  demanded  the  cap- 
tain, with  unwarrantable  impatience. 

Mr.  Burns  flashed  up. 

"  How  should  you  know  ?    Haven't  you  openly  devoted 


HIGH-  IVA  TER-MARK.  255 

yourself  to  her  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  this  whole  com- 
munity, until  it  is  the  universal  belief  that  you  are  going 
to  marry  her?" 

"I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  said  the  captain.  "The 
'  universal  belief  is  a  damned  nuisance,  gotten  up  to 
compel  people  to  a  stereotyped  line  of  action.  I  repu- 
diate it." 

Mr.  Burns  had  learned  in  their  brief  intercourse  that 
there  was  a  certain  cold,  hard  side  to  Captain  Courtenay 
which  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  contend  against,  and 
he  dropped  the  subject. 

At  Crawford  Academy  there  was  little  attention  paid  to 
books  in  those  days.  Nothing  was  studied,  even  by  school- 
girls, but  the  national  problem  ;  nothing  was  read  but  the 
newspapers.  Still,  Miss  Belmont,  the  only  one  of  the 
faculty  who  stood  faithfully  at  her  post,  and  could  see  no 
necessity  for  neglecting  her  duty  though  the  whole  edifice 
of  government  were  tottering  to  its  fall,  held  steadily 
on  with  her  classes  and  tried  to  keep  up  an  interest,  though 
all  the  time  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  or  just  back  of 
them,  ready  to  start  and  fall  whenever  her  glance  encoun- 
tered a  vacant  seat.  Sometimes  a  vacant  seat  became 
more  conspicuously  vacant  after  an  announcement  by  let- 
ter or  telegram  that  some  one  had  fallen.  Then  the  girls 
would  make  a  green  garland  and  lay  upon  the  desk  and 
tie  a  knot  of  crape  to  the  chair,  until  one  by  one  the  va- 
cant seats  were  so  marked  and  consecrated. 

Wilma  and  Miss  Allen  one  day  performed  the  touching 
little  ceremony  of  the  wreath  and  the  mourning-badge, 
standing  weeping  beside  the  chair  that  had  been  Mr. 
Liebenwald's.  Gray  and  Liebenwald  were  both  gone, 
now.  Gray  had  joined  a  Western  regiment,  and  fell  at 
Pea  Ridge,  Liebenwald  at  Island  No.  10. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  second  year  of  the  war,  Mr. 
Ingraham  and  most  of  the  professors  threw  up  their  peace- 
ful commissions  and  entered  the  army.  It  was  one  morn- 
ing, after  prayers,  that  Mr.  Ingraham,  tapping  the  little 
silver  bell  on  his  desk  (though  that  was  hardly  necessary, 
the  study-hall  was  always  quiet  now),  in  as  cheerful  a 
manner  and  with  as  much  avoidance  of  sensation  as  possi- 


256  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

ble,  made  the  announcement  that  he  was  about  to  go. 
He  had  waited  till  nearly  all  his  "boys"  had  gone,  he 
said  ;  until  many  of  them  had  fallen,  and  he  could  not  sit 
there  looking  at  those  vacant  seats  any  longer. 

That  was  the  almost  total  breaking-up  of  Crawford 
Academy.  Very  few  cared  to  stay  after  "Prof."  was 
gone.  None  but  those  who  had  held  to  duty  and  to  Miss 
Belmont  rather  than  to  Mr.  Ingraham.  Then  were  shown 
Mr.  Ingraham 's  personal  power  and  influence.  He  had 
bound  his  students  to  himself,  rather  than  to  principle 
and  to  their  own  best  interests.  They  were  half  wild  at 
the  parting.  They  clustered  around  him  with  streaming 
eyes,  and  followed  him  to  the  station,  and  clung  to  his 
hands,  kissing  them,  on  the  very  steps  of  the  cars  as  they 
were  moving  off.  Oh,  it  was  too  bad,  they  said  ;  it  was 
too  horrible,  that  that  grand  head,  with  its  silver  hairs, 
should  be  made  a  target  for  rebel  bullets  !  Even  Miss 
Belmont  broke  down.  She  bade  him  "  good-by"  at  the 
door  of  her  recitation-room,  and  then  went  back  and  sat 
down,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  uncon- 
trollably ;  then  rallied,  and  took  up  sadly,  but  firmly,  the 
broken  threads  he  had  left. 

In  the  mean  time,  came  letters  from  Mr.  Burns.  Not 
regularly,  or  very  often  ;  but  they  were  enough  to  make 
links  in  the  long  chain  of  suspense  and  sickening,  deferred 
hope.  Mr.  Burns  was  becoming  disgusted  with  the  whole 
business  of  war.  Thought  it  incredible  that  in  this  nine- 
teenth century  men  should  stand  up  and  kill  one  another 
by  the  hundreds.  Great  heavens !  would  we  never  get 
above  the  savage  ?  What  good  is  all  our  progress,  our  re- 
finement, our  cultivation  ?  At  sound  of  the  trumpet  it  is 
all  swept  away  like  silken  cobwebs,  and  men  are  blood- 
hounds. "  Here  we  are,"  said  he,  "some  thousands  of 
us,  figuring  on  a  great  chess-board ;  yonder,  at  Washing- 
ton, and  down  below,  at  Richmond,  sit  the  men  who  are 
cunningly  playing  us  against  each  other.  Is  this  what  I 
have  shaped  my  life  for?  Is  this  what  I  was  brought  into 
the  world  and  carefully  trained  through  years  of  tender 
infancy  and  childhood  for, — all  my  teaching  and  educa- 
tion tending  toward  the  cultivation  of  a  higher  nature  in 
me?  Is  this  man's  noblest  end,  most  glorious  destiny,  to 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


257 


stand  and  be  shot  down,  himself  dealing  death  to  others? 
I  cannot  see  it.  I  had  meant  to  do  better  things  with  my 
life.  War  is  a  fine  subject  to  write  about  and  to  talk  about ; 
poets  and  orators  have  made  the  most  of  it.  But  practically 
— I  mean  in  the  everyday  details  of  it — it  is  an  idle,  de- 
moralizing, cruel  thing.  Heavens  !  when  I  think  of  these 
golden  days,  spent  in  lounging  about  camp  by  thousands  of 
men,  it  maddens  me.  Why  are  we  not  doing  something 
for  the  advancement  of  men,  rather  than  for  their  destruc- 
tion ?  Even  a  battle-field  is  not  a  sublime  spectacle  to 
me,  especially  after  the  battle  !  I  go  about  among  the 
dead  and  dying,  see  the  suffering,  the  mangled  bodies, 
and  blood,  and  slain  beasts,  and  I  am  sickened,  horrified. 
Oh,  God  !  will  it  never  end?  I  want  to  get  away  from 
the  battle-smoke  and  the  din  of  musketry,  and  shrieks  and 
wounds,  and  curses  and  agonized  prayers,  and  death,  and 
find  some  peaceful  spot  where  men  are  whole,  not  man- 
gled and  bruised  and  broken,  and  where  women  are  light- 
hearted  and  gay,  and  unused  to  the  sight  of  blood.  To 
me,  the  grandest  thing  in  war  is  the  individual  heroism  of 
some  brave  souls.  In  a  whole  army  of  men,  moving  and 
acting  with  one  impulse,  we  lose  sight  of  the  individual. 
But  he  is  here  as  elsewhere, — each  separate,  living  atom 
a  world  within  itself,  and  the  centre,  it  may  be,  of  another 
world.  When  one  man  falls  the  shock  is  almost  sure  to 
vibrate  through  some  little  circle  far  away;  for  few  of 
us  are  so  poor,  or  obscure,  as  not  to  have  a  place  in  the 
world,  and  friends.  (In  my  gloomiest  moods  I  some- 
times fancy  no  one  is  so  poor  as  I  in  this  respect.  I  have 
not  one  living  relative  that  I  am  aware  of.) 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,  Wilma;  I  do  not  regret 
coming  into  the  army.  I  would  do  the  same  thing  over 
again  to-day,  with  my  eyes  wide  open  to  all  these  horrors. 
There  is  no  other  way.  I  only  lament  that  in  all  these 
enlightened,  progressive  centuries  we  have  not  outgrown 
such  barbarities.  Of  course  I  know  that  out  of  the  blood 
spilled  now  will  grow  the  olive-branch  by  and  by,  and 
the  world  will  be  better,  perhaps,  that  we  have  fought  and 
died.  I  spoke  of  there  being  some  heroes  among  us; 
Captain  Courtenay  is  one  of  these.  He  is  the  bravest, 
best,  most  indefatigable  officer  I  know, — caring  for  every- 

22* 


258  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

body,  looking  out  for  everybody's  comfort.  After  every 
engagement  his  first  business  is  to  inquire  who  is  missing, 
and  to  help  care  for  the  wounded  and  bury  the  dead  ;  and 
then  to  write  the  tenderest  letters  to  the  stricken  friends 
at  home, — letters,  I  suspect,  that  will  be  sacredly  saved 
and  handed  down,  yellow  with  age,  a  century  hence." 

So  Mr.  Burns  continued  to  write.  But  all  the  time  it 
was  pressing  upon  him,  like  a  nightmare,  that  his  love  for 
Wilma,  born  in  his  early  boyhood,  was  dying  out.  For 
many  months  he  struggled  against  the  thought  and  would 
not  believe  it.  Even  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  be 
taken  into  account, — no  consideration  for  Wilma, — it  hurt 
him  that  he  had  miscalculated  his  own  stability  of  affec- 
tion. It  touched  his  honor,  his  truth,  his  firm  self-confi- 
dence. For  Wilma  had  not  changed.  He  could  find  no 
excuse,  outside  of  himself,  for  his  variableness. 

One  evening  (the  army  was  encamped  in  a  strip  of 
woods  bordering  a  small  stream)  he  went  out  and  took  a 
melancholy  walk  up  and  down,  thinking  life  held  very 
little.  The  sun  was  going  down,  so  the  world  turned 
round.  To-day,  to-morrow,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  Was 
there  anything  on  which  to  fasten  hope,  anything  worth 
planning  for  and  aspiring  to?  Gloomier  than  the  duski- 
ness of  twilight  the  shadows  gathered  in  his  blue  eyes. 
He  went  back  to  the  tent.  It  was  warm,  but  the  curtain 
was  lowered  and  a  dim  light  burning  within.  He  raised 
the  curtain  and  saw  Captain  Courtenay  sitting  at  a  small, 
improvised  table,  with  his  back  to  the  door.  Near  him 
stood  a  young  officer,  evidently  just  arisen  from  a  camp- 
stool,  whom  he  had  frequently  seen,  but  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  had  never  made,  being  frustrated  in  sundry  friendly 
overtures  by  the  officer's  reserve  and  evident  avoidance 
of  him.  A  slender  young  fellow,  who  walked  with  a 
proud  step,  his  head  bent  down,  and  his  military  hat 
pulled  low  over  his  eyes.  He  was  said  to  be  very  wealthy ; 
he  had  a  tent  to  himself,  and  a  servant  who  followed  him 
about  like  a  dog.  At  this  moment  the  servant  was  stand- 
ing a  few  feet  from  Mr.  Burns.  Captain  Courtenay  got 
up  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  and 
appeared  to  be  remonstrating  with  him  or  demanding  a 
promise  from  him  in  some  low-spoken  words.  His  face 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


259 


was  pale  from  strong  feeling,  and  wrought  into  an  ex- 
pression of  combined  firmness  and  gentleness.  The 
other's  manner  was  greatly  agitated.  Mr.  Burns,  on  the 
point  of  retreating,  was  suddenly  surprised  by  the  young 
man  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  and  exclaiming,  in 
a  muffled  voice,  "Oh,  heavens!  what  shall  I  do?"  and 
rushing  past  him  out  into  the  darkness.  Captain  Courte- 
nay's  eyes,  following  him,  encountered  Mr.  Burns,  and  in 
the  first  flash  of  surprised  glances  interchanged  he  seemed 
to  turn  a  shade  paler.  But  he  recovered  himself  in- 
stantly. 

"  Ah  !  have  you  finished  your  walk?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  Did  I  interrupt  your  interview  with  Captain 
Reeves?" 

"  No ;  the  interview  was  at  an  end.  The  young  man 
is  in  some  trouble." 

"  So  I  inferred.  Anything  connected  with  his  com- 
mission ?" 

"  No;  a  little  personal  matter." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  smiling,  "that  you 
have  succeeded  better  with  Captain  Reeves  than  any  of 
the  rest  of  the  officers  have.  I  have  observed  you  two 
walking  together  several  times  lately.  Raymond  and  I 
were  speaking  of  it  yesterday ;  he  doesn't  notice  us  poor 
devils." 

"You  and  Raymond  had  better  let  him  alone,"  said 
the  captain,  seating  himself  at  the  table  and  drawing  some 
papers  from  his  pocket,  his  manner  plainly  showing  that 
he  wished  the  subject  dropped.  By  and  by  he  remarked, 
"  I  have  not  a  doubt  that  our  cavalry  will  be  repulsed  to- 
morrow morning  if  they  rn^ke  an  attack,  as  they  propose 
to  do  ;  and  in  that  case  the  rebels  will  follow  them  up  and 
we  will  probably  come  to  an  engagement  here." 

His  prophecy  was  correct.  Before  nine  o'clock  the 
routed  cavalry  came  flying  back  in  a  disorderly  retreat, 
and  shouted  out,  swinging  their  ragged  hats,  "  Go  in  and 
fight  now,  you  infantry;  we've  had  enough  of  it.  The 
rebels  are  right  after  us ;  they  are  sure  not  to  halt  till  they 
come  to  that  belt  of  timber  over  yonder." 

"This  broad  plantation  between  will  make  a  splendid 
battle-ground,"  said  a  young  officer,  with  swelling  chest. 


2  60  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

The  enthusiasm  ran  along  the  lines,  and  every  man 
caught  it.  Even  Mr.  Burns,  disgusted,  satiated,  melan- 
choly, felt  electrified.  His  eyes  kindled,  his  nostrils  di- 
lated, his  cheeks  paled  as  they  always  did  with  passion  or 
excitement.  He  straightened  himself,  and  threw  back  his 
shoulders,  and  was  every  inch  a  soldier.  Preparations 
went  forward  rapidly,  for  enthusiasm  is  a  swift  worker. 
About  noon  the  picket-line  stationed  some  rods  out  in  the 
field  was  fired  upon  by  the  rebel  pickets,  and  a  slight  skir- 
mishing was  kept  up  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  A  num- 
ber of  officers,  grouped  together,  were  drinking  coffee  and 
eating  a  light  luncheon. 

"  I  hardly  think  we  shall  do  any  fighting  to-night,"  the 
colonel  of  Mr.  Burns's  regiment  had  just  remarked,  and 
Captain  Courtenay,  getting  up  and  striking  a  match  to 
light  his  cigar,  glanced  across  the  plantation  and  answered, 

"  Do  you  think  not?  It  seems  to  me  the  firing  is  get- 
ting more  brisk  along  the  picket-line.  Look  !  By  heav- 
ens !  there  they  come." 

Simultaneously  the  bugles  sounded,  and  every  man 
sprang  to  his  place.  Out  from  the  opposite  stretch  of 
timber  arose  a  dense  line  of  rebel  cavalry,  with  colors  fly- 
ing and  drums  beating,  and  advanced  at  a  swift  gallop, 
arms  in  rest,  close  up  to  the  Union  lines.  They  were  met 
with  a  tremendous  discharge  of  musketry  and  driven  back. 
The  battle-smoke  slowly  clearing  away,  revealed,  here  and 
there,  a  prostrate  horseman  in  the  dust ;  the  rest  had  all 
galloped  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  woods  again.  Among 
the  few  Union  soldiers  who  had  dropped  out  of  their 
places  and  lay  on  the  ground,  bleeding,  was  Captain 
Courtenay's  second  lieutenant,  Starr  Raymond.  Mr. 
Burns  came  up  hurriedly,  and  knelt  down  beside  him  ;  a 
soldier  had  raised  him  up  and  was  putting  some  water  to 
his  lips.  He  gave  a  gasp  or  two,  and  was  still. 

"Dead,"  said  the  soldier.  "Shot  right  through  the 
side,  you  see?"  showing  a  rent  in  the  blue  uniform. 

"Yes;  carry  him  off  the  field,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  and 
moved  away,  thinking  whether  the  world  and  humanity 
had  gained  anything  by  this  brave  death. 

There  was  barely  time  to  carry  off  the  wounded  and 
dead  before  a  rapid  advance  was  made  by  solid  ranks  of 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  261 

rebel  infantry.  They  were  met  as  the  cavalry  had  been 
met,  but  as  fast  as  they  were  cut  down  the  living  stepped 
over  the  dead,  filling  up  the  vacant  ranks  and  pressing 
closer,  closer,  until  the  excited  command  was  given,  high 
above  the  din,  "Charge  bayonets  !"  The  Union  soldiers, 
overpowered  and  dismayed,  gave  way  and  fled  in  utter 
confusion.  But  reinforcements  were  close  at  hand,  and 
before  nightfall  the  enemy  were  again  driven  back.  The 
battle  had  raged  barely  an  hour,  and  two  thousand  lives 
were  cut  off.  Captain  Courtenay's  roll-call,  in  the  morn- 
ing, had  numbered  ninety-seven  ;  to-night  a  little  com- 
pany of  thirty  made  up  his  command. 

"  This  is  the  most  disastrous  day  we  have  had,"  he  said, 
walking  back  and  forth  in  his  tent,  greatly  agitated. 

"  It  was  a  desperate  fight,"  returned  Mr.  Burns.  "It 
is  the  first  time  I  have  drawn  my  sword,"  taking  it  from 
its  sheath  and  examining  the  blade.  "  I  should  have  been 
bayonetted  if  you  had  not  come  to  my  aid,  Burr." 

"Yes,  I  was  looking  out  for  you,"  said  the  captain; 
"but  I  came  near  being  too  late." 

So  intense  a  feeling  came  over  them  both  at  the  recol- 
lection of  the  perilous  moment  that  they  silently  clasped 
hands. 

A  soldier  came  in  on  some  errand,  despatched  it,  and 
then  lingered  to  ask:  "Did  you  hear  about  Captain 
Reeves?"  addressing  Mr.  Burns. 

Captain  Courtenay  wheeled  around.  "  What  about 
Captain  Reeves?"  he  demanded. 

"Shot, — dead,"  said  the  man. 

"  Good  God  !     You  must  be  mistaken,  man  !" 

"  No,  sir ;  he  fell  in  that  first  cavalry  charge,  and  his 
servant  carried  him  off  the  field.  He's  lying  in  a  little 
hut  down  here  on  the  river-bank." 

Captain  Courtenay  caught  up  his  hat  and  started  out, 
exclaiming  to  the  man,  "  Show  me  the  way  !" 

Mr.  Burns,  left  alone,  was  speculating  on  the  violence 
of  his  friend's  emotion,  and  wondering  what  there  could 
be  between  him  and  the  young  officer,  when  another  vis- 
itor, one  of  the  college  boys,  raised  the  curtain  and 
looked  in. 

"  Hello  !  lieutenant,  alone?" 


262  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

"Yes;  come  in,  Craig,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  and  motioned 
him  to  a  camp-stool.  "  Well,  how  do  you  find  yourself?" 

"Unscathed,  thank  the  Lord,"  said  Craig.  "This  has 
been  a  dreadful  day." 

"It  has,  indeed.     Poor  Raymond  !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  And  did  you  hear  about  Captain  Reeves?" 

"Yes;  Courtenay  has  just  gone  down  to  see  him. 
Dead,  they  say." 

"But  did  you  hear  nothing  else?"  said  Craig,  incred- 
ulously. 

"No.    What  else?" 

"  Why,  Lord  bless  your  soul,  lieutenant,  Captain  Reeves 
was  a  woman  !" 

"Good  God!" 

"  It  is  a  fact.  Bribed  her  way  into  the  army,  they  say. 
It  leaked  out  as  soon  as  she  was  dead.  They  have  sent 
for  some  of  the  hospital  nurses  to  come  and  take  charge 
of  her." 

A  sudden  suspicion  pierced  Mr.  Burns  like  a  knife. 

"  Do  you  suppose  Captain  Courtenay  knew?"  he  asked, 
feeling  his  heart  harden  against  his  friend. 

"  I  hardly  think  so ;  and  yet  it  might  be,"  said  Craig. 
And  Mr.  Burns  regretted  that  he  had  awakened  the  idea. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  combatting  it ;  "I  don't  think  he 
knew.  It  is  impossible !  Suppose  we  walk  down  to  that 
little  hut.  Is  it  far?" 

"Not  above  twenty  rods." 

They  stepped  out  and  walked  down  the  river  a  little 
way,  and  came  to  a  rude  log  cabin,  from  whose  small, 
square  windows  a  dim  light  shone.  The  front  door  was 
open,  and  they  entered  what  appeared  to  be  the  main 
room  of  the  building.  It  was  occupied  by  soldiers  keep- 
ing guard.  Back  of  it  was  another  small  apartment,  and 
they  were  told  to  pass  on  into  that.  They  expected  to 
find  Captain  Courtenay  there,  but  the  room  was  unoccu- 
pied except  by  one  motionless  figure  stretched  upon  a 
long  bench  and  covered  with  a  flag.  Craig  advanced  and 
put  out  his  hand  to  uncover  the  face.  Mr.  Burns,  into 
whose  heart  a  sickening  fear  had  crept,  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Don't  do  that !"  said  he.     "  She  is  a  woman." 

"Why,  good  Lord  !"  Craig  exclaimed,  turning  round, 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  263 

"what's  the  matter?  You' re  as  white  as  a  ghost.    Sit  down 
and  let  me  run  for  some  water." 

He  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  Mr.  Burns  swiftly  and 
stealthily  approached  the  motionless  figure,  and,  with 
trembling  hand,  turned  back  the  flag  and  looked  down 
on  the  beautiful  face  of  Miss  Maclvers. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

IT  was  an  agonized  question  in  Mr.  Burns's  mind,  after 
that,  how  he  should  meet  his  friend  ;  his  faith  in  him  was 
cruelly  shaken.  He  went  back  to  the  tent ;  the  captain 
was  not  there.  He  threw  himself  on  his  couch  and 
counted  the  wretched  hours  of  the  night  as  they  dragged 
on.  Toward  morning  he  fell  asleep,  and  awoke  when 
the  captain,  a  little  later,  raised  the  tent  curtain  and  came 
in.  His  face  was  white ;  his  heavy,  dark  hair  was  wet 
with  dew ;  he  shivered  as  if  with  the  cold.  Mr.  Burns, 
with  a  groan,  turned  his  face  away  and  feigned  sleep. 
When  morning  came  and  he  was  obliged,  almost,  to  take 
a  stand  for  or  against  his  friend,  he  thought  it  the  hardest 
thing  in  his  life  that  he  could  do  neither.  He  avoided 
meeting  his  eyes  and  only  spoke  when  spoken  to ;  and 
that  was  very  seldom,  for  the  captain  was  more  taciturn 
than  usual,  and  seemed  wholly  occupied  with  what  was 
going  on  within  himself,  whatever  that  might  be.  Evi- 
dently he  was  oblivious  of  any  change  in  Mr.  Burns.  If 
he  suffered,  suffering  made  no  impression  on  his  strong 
physique.  In  a  day  he  was  wholly  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  Miss  Maclvers's  death,  so  far  as  looks  went. 

Mr.  Burns,  on  the  contrary,  grew  haggard,  pale,  hollow- 
eyed.  He  was  full  of  tender  humanity,  and  naturally 
prone  to  melancholy;  and  educated  in  it  somewhat  by 
the  suffering  around  him  and  the  sorrows  by  which  the 
whole  world  seemed  helplessly  burdened.  At  home, 
among  his  books, — associated  through  them  with  great 
minds  living  on  and  on, — and  intimate  with  fields  and 
woods  and  sky  and  water,  studying  nature's  laws  and 


264  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

pursuing  her  intricate  and  beautiful  paths  as  science  and 
art  and  literature  traced  them,  the  world  and  man  had 
seemed  far  more  sublime  problems.  Of  course  it  was  be- 
cause he  jvas  so  pressed  down  and  hemmed  in  by  circum- 
stances, and  moving  without  any  volition  of  his  own,  that 
he  took  such  a  sad  view  of  things.  He  could  not  get 
up  and  look  at  his  life,  or  at  any  life,  from  an  outside 
standpoint.  The  whole  plan  of  human  destiny  seemed 
small,  brief,  petty,  living  in  the  midst  of  its  boiling  and 
seething.  Could  a  life  come  out  and  separate  itself,  clear 
and  pure,  from  all  this? 

In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  days  came  a  letter  from 
Wilma.  He  was  sitting  in  his  tent,  alone,  when  it  was 
brought  to  him,  and  he  took  it  up  and  opened  it  with  a 
new  weariness.  Crises  will  come.  We  can  no  more 
avoid  jthem  in  the  small  affairs  of  our  lives  than  in  the 
storm  that  has  long  been  gathering  in  the  heavens.  Every 
line  in  Wilma's  letter  tended  toward  a  crisis,  though  there 
was  a  strong  effort  at  cheerfulness  in  it. 

Mr.  Burns  caught  up  his  hat  and  rushed  out  of  the  tent 
and  took  his  way  down  along  the  creek  to  a  lonesome  spot 
in  the  woods,  where  he  could  give  free  vent  to  his  excited 
feelings. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  cannot  bear  it !"  he  said,  with  a 
groan,  crushing  the  letter  in  his  hand.  "  I  must  write  to 
her  and  tell  her  that  the  dream  is  over.  It  breaks  my 
heart ;  but  I  must.  Oh,  Wilma !  why  were  we  ever  so 
linked  together  in  our  tender  years,  since  the  chain  must 
be  broken  ?  God  help  me  !  God  help  us  both  !  Why  does 
no  rebel  bullet  find  its  way  to  me?  I  am  ready,  and  it 
would  be  as  good  a  death  as  any,  perhaps,  to  die  for  my 
country  !" 

He  said  it  with  bitterness,  looking  back  at  his  old  aspi- 
rations toward  a  high,  intellectual  life.  He  even  felt  some 
pity  for  himself  as  he  might  have  felt  for  another.  So 
young !  So  full,  a  little  while  ago,  of  the  enthusiasm  of 
living;  and  now,  in  place  of  it  all,  keen  disappointment 
and  a  probable  cruel,  bloody  death.  He  bowed  his  head 
in  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud.  By  and  by,  he  took  out 
his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face,  and  straightened 
himself  up  with  an  air  of  resolution,  and  turned  toward 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  265 

the  camp  ground  again  and  hurried  into  his  tent.  There 
was  nobody  there,  for  which  he  thanked  heaven,  and  sat 
down  to  write  to  Wilma.  He  told  her  how  long  he  had 
struggled  and  how  hard  he  had  tried  to  be  true  to  her. 
"  God  knows,"  he  said,  "  I  meant  to  be  faithful.  In  the 
old  time,  I  never  foresaw  any  possibility  like  this.  I 
thought  it  was  all  settled  between  you  and  me  for  all  our 
lives.  I  did  not  think  anything  could  change  my  feeling 
toward  you.  I  don't  know  now,  why  it  is  changed  ;  I 
only  know  that  it  is.  That  the  old  tender  love  is  gone, 
gone.  I  can't  get  it  back.  And  surely,  surely,  Wilma, 
the  thought  that  I  cannot  is  as  despairing  to  me  as  to  you. 
I  would  to  God  I  could.  I  esteem  and  respect,  and  love 
you  yet,  in  a  certain  way,  more  than  any  one  else  I  know. 
I  have  never  met  any  one  I  could  compare  with  you  in 
the  relation  in  which  you  stood  to  me.  I  have  never  met 
any  woman  whom  I  could  ask  to  be  my  wife  but  you  ;  and 
yet  I  feel  that  between  us  the  bright  dream  is  over.  Oh, 
Wilma,  Wilma!  what  shall  we  do?" 

There  came  over  him  the  thought  of  how  Wilma  had 
fastened  all  good  and  noble  principles  and  sentiments  to 
him,  and  believed  in  them  through  him,  and  he  had  a 
momentary  dread  of  shaking  her  trust  in  them ;  and  he 
wrote,  "  I  know  that  you  will  not  believe  the  less  in  the 
truth  of  mankind  because  one  man  has  changed  to  you. 

I  have  a  strong  faith  in  you  and  in  your  power  to "• 

He  stopped  and  drew  his  pen  through  the  last  line.  He 
would  not  let  it  seem  that  he  prompted  her  or  suggested  to 
her  to  bear  up  under  the  affliction  he  himself  had  brought 
upon  her.  Surely  it  would  come  from  him  with  a  poor 
grace  ! 

Thinking  that  he  had  written  all  that  it  was  possible 
for  him  to  write,  and  that  he  was  powerless  to  comfort 
where  he  had  struck  such  a  cruel  blow,  he  abruptly  closed 
his  letter  with  these  words,  destined  to  fall  as  the  clods 
fall  on  the  coffin -lid  :  "The  night  is  coming  on.  It 
rains,  and  the  wind  sweeps  by,  and  the  shadows  gather 
thickly  around  me.  And  so  ends  the  saddest,  dreariest 
day  of  my  life.  Oh,  Wilma,  Wilma,  Wilma!" 

He  did  not  sign  his  name  ;  the  handwriting  was  enough. 
And,  hearing  the  captain  coming  in,  he  folded  and  sealed 
M  23 


266  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

the  letter  hastily,  and  dropped  it  in  the  letter-box ;  then 
turned,  with  sad  heart-yearning,  toward  his  friend. 

"Burr,  tell  me,  for  God's  sake!  were  you  all  along 
aware  that  Captain  Reeves  was  Miss  Maclvers  ?  Was  it 
your  doing?" 

Captain  Courtenay  turned  upon  him  with  a  passion- 
white  face  and  haughty,  gleaming  eyes. 

"Was  what  my  doing?" 

"  Getting  Miss  Maclvers  into  the  army." 

"  By  God  !  do  you  take  me  for  Lucifer  let  out  of  hell? 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  compel  you  to  draw  your  sword  !" 
laying  his  hand  upon  his  own. 

"You  couldn't  compel  me  to  draw  my  sword,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  sadly.  "I  want  to  know  about  Miss  Mac- 
lvers. If  her  death,  or  her  being  here,  did  not  shock 
you,  perhaps  you  cannot  understand  how  it  hurt  me.  But 
I  would  like  to  know  the  circumstances  as  you  know 
them." 

Captain  Courtenay  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  an- 
swered, "  You  doubtless  remember  giving  me  the  im- 
pression that  Miss  Maclvers  was  a  woman  capable  of 
taking  care  of  herself.  Upon  that  supposition  I  sought 
her  society  to  vary  the  tedium  of  camp-life,  taking  no 

thought  beyond  that.  After  we  left  R I  knew  no 

more  of  her  movements  than  you  did,  until  one  evening 
in  taking  a  stroll — it  was  about  a  week  previous  to  our 
engagement  here — I  accidentally  encountered  Captain 
Reeves  in  the  wood  with  his  hat  removed,  and  recog- 
nized him.  I  used  every  means  in  my  power  to  persuade 
her  to  go  back  home.  And  that  evening  when  you  saw 
her  here  in  the  tent,  I  told  her  that  if  she  did  not  resign 
her  commission  within  twelve  hours  I  would  take  meas- 
ures to  compel  her  to  do  it.  I  thought  she  had.  She 
sent  me  a  note  the  following  morning  saying  she  was  on 
the  point  of  quitting  the  army.  It  was  just  after  the  cav- 
alry were  repulsed.  I  have  not  a  doubt  she  wilfully  threw 
herself  in  the  way  of  death." 

Mr.  Burns  crossed  over  and  grasped  his  friend's  hand ; 
his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  I  thank  God  !  I  thank  God  !"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

Captain  Courtenay's  face  was  deadly  pale  and  his  lips 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  267 

compressed.    His  hand  shook  as  Mr.  Burns's  fingers  closed 
around  it. 

Neither  spoke  again  for  some  moments.  Mr.  Burns 
went  back  to  his  place  and  sat  down.  By  and  by  he  said, 
in  the  low,  changed  voice  we  all  use  after  a  strong  emo- 
tion has  passed  over  us,  "I  am  sorry — that  it^  got  out." 

"It  did  not  get  out  that  it  was  Miss  Maclvers^'  the 
captain  returned,  in  the  same  low  voice.  "The  nurses 
came  that  night,  and  I  had  them  dress  her  in  some  of  their 
own  clothes;  and,  they  accompanying  me,  I  took  her  to 

W ,  and  left  her  in  charge  of  a  minister  there  to  be 

buried,  and  told  him  to  write  a  certificate  of  her  death 

and  send  it  to  a  lawyer  in  R .     I  represented  that  she 

was  a  hospital  nurse." 

"  You  did  all  this  for  her !"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "And  I 
thought  of  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that  she  was  dead." 

"  It  was  my  business  more  than  yours,  perhaps,  to  take 
charge  of  her,"  said  the  captain. 

"True;  she  loved  you,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  and  added, 
looking  up,  "and  I  thought  you  loved  her?" 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "No.  I  would 
to  God  I  had  never  seen  her !  I'll  tell  you,  Charley,  if  a 
man  could  look  beyond  his  acts  to  their  consequences,  he 
wouldn't  blunder  so  much." 

It  was  a  very  strong  admission  for  Captain  Courtenay 
to  make. 

"Still,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "certain  trees  bear  certain 
fruits.  We  can  guide  ourselves  pretty  well  by  the  law  of 
cause  and  effect;  yet," — thinking  of  his  own  affairs, — 
"it's  true  we  can't  foresee  results.  The  best  of  motives 
may  bring  about  the  saddest  consequences." 

His  letter  to  Wilma  was  barely  despatched  before  he 
began  to  feel  the  pain  of  suspense  and  anxiety  as  to  how 
she  would  receive  it  and  what  she  would  reply.  He  tor- 
tured himself  for  days  with  picturing  her  anguish  when 
she  should  know  for  a  certainty  that  all  was  over  between 
them.  The  certainty  that  all  was  over  between  them 
hardly  brought  any  relief  to  himself,  so  great  was  his 
sorrow  for  her  pain.  And  he  could  not  fully  assure  him- 
self, at  any  time,  that  he  had  done  what  was  right  and 
best ;  especially,  as  the  long  months  passed  and  no  word 


268  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

came  from  her,  he  began  to  doubt,  and  to  wonder  some- 
times, if  he  were  not  altogether  wrong.  He  began  to 
think  more  tenderly  of  her.  Now  that  the  chains  were 
broken  and  he  was  no  longer  bound,  he  began  to  see  her, 
as  things  are  seen  in  the  distance,  in  the  vanished,  beau- 
tiful past.  A  halo  gathered  about  the  gentle  head.  Then, 
as  the  long  silence  continued,  he  began  to  think  she  had 
given  him  up  easily,  and  to  feel  hurt.  No  doubt  (he 
thought)  he  had  exaggerated  both  her  affection  for  him 
and  her  grief  at  losing  him,  and  it  confirmed  an  old  sus- 
picion he  used  to  have  in  their  early  love-days  that  Wilma 
could  not  feel  as  deeply  as  he  felt.  So,  perhaps,  it  was 
better  ended  ;  though  it  saddened  him  to  reflect  what 
bubbles  young  loves  and  hopes  are  !  He  wondered  if  all 
faith,  all  belief,  all  enthusiasm  would  end  like  this  ;  if 
we  must  be  forever  blindfolded,  and  forever  having  the 
bandages  taken  off,  to  be  shown  the  emptiness  of  things ! 
He  came  to  the  conclusion  to  make  no  more  plans,  enter- 
tain no  more  aspirations,  have  no  hopes  or  beliefs  in  any- 
thing. He  would  not  be  a  tool,  a  toy,  a  child.  He 
would  not  let  the  beautiful  deceits  of  this  world  play  with 
him  and  toss  him  aside,  bruised  and  broken.  He  would 
not  let  himself  be  puffed  up  with  faith  in  a  bubble  that 
would  explode  by  and  by.  He  turned  a  cold,  dispassion- 
ate eye  upon  all  the  rush  and  swell  of  life,  and  looked 
with  a  sort  of  pitying  contempt  upon  the  ambitions  and 
strivings  and  enthusiasms  of  men  and  women.  How  far 
he  had  risen  above  it,  an  isolated,  melancholy  spectator ! 
Sometimes  he  fancied  Captain  Courtenay  held  the  same 
advantageous  position  as  a  sceptical  looker-on.  And  yet, 
though  he  had  apparently  no  faith  in  the  Jack-a-lanterns, 
he  still  pursued  them.  It  was  a  mystery  to  Mr.  Burns, 
who,  losing  faith,  lost  all  enjoyment.  His  watch  must  be 
genuine  gold,  or  it  was  worthless  to  him  ;  a  woman  must 
be  true,  or  he  took  no  pleasure  in  her  beauty.  But  Cap- 
tain Courtenay  could  take  up  a  thing,  admire  it,  enjoy  it, 
throw  it  away  without  regret, — without,  apparently,  feel- 
ing of  any  kind.  Mr.  Burns  had  learned,  through  much 
suffering,  that  the  roots  of  his  nature  struck  deep.  In 
future  he  would  keep  himself  high  and  dry,  and  not  take 
root. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  269 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

WILMA  was  still  living  in  a  faint  hope,  broken  now  and 
then  by  the  intrusive  suspicion  that,  perhaps,  it  was  her 
duty  to  herself  and  to  Mr.  Burns,  and  it  might  be  (oh, 
heavens,  what  a  sickening  thought !)  that  he  was  leaving 
it  to  her  to  break  the  slender  thread  that  still  held  them 
together.  But  we  cannot  put  the  knife  to  our  own  diseased 
limb ;  and  in  time  she  came  to  think  it  a  merciful  respite 
that  he  did  leave  it  to  her.  (Though  we  disinterested 
parties  all  know  that  if  a  leg  or  an  arm  has  to  be  ampu- 
tated, it  is  better  to  use  despatch  and  not  consult  the 
patient's  sick  fancy.)  Sometimes  pride,  even  in  so  gentle 
a  nature  as  hers,  urged  to  resentment  of  his  coldness. 
But  the  uncertainty  respecting  his  real  attitude  toward 
her — whether  it  was  coldness,  or  whether  the  seeming 
indifference  was  merely  the  outgrowth  of  his  changed 
life — forbade  decisive  action  on  her  part,  and  hope  still 
whispered,  "  Be  true  to  yourself  and  let  time  shape  the 
rest,"  Miss  Belmont's  beautiful  motto. 

Miss  Belmont  was  making  arrangements,  at  the  close  of 
the  school  year,  to  go  South  and  enter  a  hospital.  She 
had  studied  medicine  and  surgery,  and  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  house  we  live  in  ;  and  felt  that  she  could  do 
good  service  with  her  knowledge  and  skill,  and  strong 
nerves  and  woman's  gentleness.  So  Wilma  was  thinking 
about  going  home,  and  dreading  the  pain  which  the  old, 
familiar  scenes  would  bring  to  her  sore  heart. 

It  lacked  yet  a  week  or  two  of  the  close  of  the  term 
when  she  went  one  day  to  the  post-office  and  unexpect- 
edly received  Mr.  Burns's  letter.  She  hurried  home  and 
went  into  her  room  and  sat  down  to  open  it  with  trem- 
bling hands.  She  read  it  through,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  wings  of  death  fanned  her  face.  She  grew  numb  and 
cold  and  faint.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  dry,  and  set 
in  their  sockets.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  her  breath 
came  hard, — so  hard  that  every  breath  was  a  groan.  By 
and  by,  she  got  up  with  eager  stealthiness  and  locked  the 

23* 


270 


HIGH-  WATER-MARK. 


door,  and  felt  a  kind  of  secret  exultation  that  the  whole 
world  was  shut  out  and  she  was  alone  with  this  terrible 
thing,  this  devil-fish  that  grappled  her  heart.  She  put  the 
letter — folded  up  and  crushed  back  into  its  envelope  with 
her  shaking  hand — down  deep  in  her  trunk,  as  though 
she  would  hide  the  knife  that  had  stabbed  her ;  and  then 
fell  down  with  her  face  upon  the  floor  moaning,  but  not 
realizing  what  hurt  her.  Late  in  the  evening  she  heard 
Mrs.  Woods  come  and  try  her  door ;  she  raised  her  head 
and  listened  with  quickened  senses,  and  felt  the  strange 
throb  of  secret  exultation  again  when  she  went  away, 
knowing  that  she  would  not  again  be  disturbed.  The 
moon  shone  nearly  all  night  long  through  the  uncovered 
window,  and  looked  down  unpityingly  upon  her  misery. 
Now  and  then  she  got  up  and  walked  about,  or  knelt  be- 
side a  chair  and  laid  her  tearless  face  upon  it.  She  never 
approached  the  bed  ;  she  could  touch  nothing  but  what 
was  hard  and  unyielding. 

She  was  glad  when  morning  broke ;  any  change — the 
least — must  bring  some  relief.  She  sprang  up  at  the  first 
sounds  of  life  and  stir  in  the  house,  and  began  rapidly  to 
make  her  toilet ;  pulling  down  her  long  hair  and  brushing 
it  carefully,  and  bathing  her  face.  When  she  came  to 
look  in  the  glass  her  face  was  ashy  gray,  with  heavy 
shadows  under  the  eyes.  She  brightened  it  up  with  as 
cheerful  an  expression  as  possible ;  she  had  will-power 
enough  to  do  that,  and  to  go  out  to  breakfast  looking 
much  as  usual,  though  her  lips  and  eyes  were  still  dry 
and  her  throat  so  husky  that  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  Everything  seemed  strange.  Even  the  clink  of 
the  teaspoons  in  the  cups,  as  Mrs.  Woods  served  the  coffee, 
struck  her  with  a  new  sound.  She  ate  what  she  could, 
and  then  got  up  hurriedly  and  said  she  was  going  out. 
She  remembered  that  it  was  Saturday.  She  went  into  her 
room  and  put  on  her  hat  in  great  haste  and  started  off  to 
the  woods.  Some  pent-up  power  within  her  seemed  hur- 
rying her  all  the  time.  She  made  straight  for  an  old, 
unused  road  she  knew  of, — where  she  and  Miss  Percy  used 
to  go, — with  branches  of  trees  meeting  overhead.  When 
she  reached  it,  lying  in  a  deep  solitude  that  was  unbroken 
except  by  the  notes  of  a  few  little  birds,  and  the  crack- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


271 


ling  of  twigs  under  the  tiny  feet  of  small,  swift,  wood 
animals,  she  marked  out  a  "  beat"  for  herself  and  walked 
back  and  forth  upon  it,  back  and  forth  ;  neither  thinking 
nor  feeling  much,  and  yet  in  a  state  of  intense  conscious- 
ness. By  and  by,  a  thought  struck  her  like  a  flash  of  in- 
spiration. She  saw  a  swift  way  out  of  this  dumb  misery. 
She  would  go  and  drop  herself  into  the  big  mill-pond  ; 
she  could  hear  the  water  roaring  over  the  dam  at  a  little 
distance.  She  darted  away  through  the  underbrush, 
quickly  and  stealthily,  with  her  wild,  bright  eyes,  as 
though  some  one  might  be  on  her  track,  and  soon  came 
out  on  the  edge  of  the  pond.  Not  far  off  she  saw  a  man 
with  a  gun  looking  up  into  a  tree,  and  she  sped  back  into 
the  bushes  before  he  saw  her.  What  should  she  do  now  ? 
Her  heart  was  throbbing  like  the  heart  of  a  frightened 
animal.  She  must  get  out  of  the  woods  ;  the  solitude  was 
dreadful.  Soon  she  found  herself  on  the  road  to  "pic- 
nic hill,"  as  it  had  been  called  ever  since  the  May-day 
party,  and  she  determined  to  go  up  there.  It  was  a  long 
way,  but  then  there  was  such  a  good  view  of  the  country 
from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  she  wanted  to  get  up  and 
look  around.  She  walked  at  a  great  rate;  when  she  saw 
any  one  coming  she  hid  herself  among  the  trees  and 
bushes  along  the  road-side,  thinking  that  on  no  account 
must  she  be  seen  or  people  would  know  that  something 
had  happened  to  her.  At  last  she  came  to  the  top  of  the 
hill  and  stood  looking  around  in  her  strange  solitariness. 
If  at  any  time  a  thought  of  Charley  crossed  her  mind  she 
drove  it  away  with  a  shudder,  and  walked  on  faster  and 
faster,  filling  her  brain  with  a  thousand  other  fancies  to 
crowd  out  the  misery  of  thinking  of  him.  There  was  no 
luxury  in  this  grief,  she  could  not  hug  it  to  her  bosom  and 
weep  over  it.  All  she  thought  of  was  to  banish  it,  to  get 
away  from  it. 

At  last  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  very  far  from 
home  and  must  get  back.  Half-way  back  she  began  sud- 
denly to  get  faint,  and  thought  perhaps  she  was  going  to 
die.  She  sat  down  on  the  mossy  roots  of  an  old  tree 
and  laid  her  head  back  against  its  trunk,  and  looked 
up  through  the  leaves  at  the  sunny  blue  sky  with  fleecy 
white  clouds  floating  dreamily  across  it,  and  felt  that  it 


272 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


would  be  immeasurably  sweet  to  die, — so  sweet,  so  ex- 
quisite, that  her  lips  opened  and  she  laughed  aloud.  Then 
her  eyelids  drooped,  and  her  consciousness  began  slowly 
to  ebb  away.  She  had  a  little  note-book  and  pencil  in 
her  pocket,  the  latter  a  present  from  Charley,  the  recol- 
lection of  which  at  this  moment  gave  her  a  scarcely-felt 
twinge  of  pain  ;  she  thought  of  taking  them  out  and 
writing  that  she  would  like  to  be  buried  beside  Miss 
Percy.  But  it  required  too  much  effort ;  her  hands  lay 
heavy  and  listless  in  her  lap. 


FOURTH   BOOK. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

THE  High-Water-Mark  attorneys  had  not  often  been 
called  upon  outside  their  own  county  for  legal  services, 
albeit  they  had  something  more  than  a  local  reputation, 
and  were  highly  spoken  of  in  the  profession.  Some  time 
after  the  ball  whose  history  I  have  recorded  some  chap- 
ters back,  an  important  ward  and  guardian  case  was  put 
into  their  hands,  to  be  conducted  at  Hammond  Springs, 
the  county-seat  of  an  adjoining  county,  distant  some 
thirty  or  more  miles.  There  being  no  regular  public 
conveyance,  they  went  in  their  own  light,  open  buggy. 
Notwithstanding  the  season  was  far  advanced,  being  near 
Christmas,  the  weather  was  still  fine  and  the  roads  in 
excellent  condition.  Mr.  Burns,  who  liked  travelling 
across  the  country  in  this  manner  for  the  sake  of  what  he 
could  see  and  feel  of  nature  in  her  various  moods,  took 
up  the  lines  and  cracked  the  whip  over  "  Nobby 's"  ears 
and  set  off  in  good  spirits,  the  tide  of  memory  that  had 
swept  over  him  a  few  evenings  back  having  slowly  ebbed 
away. 

Hammond  Springs  was  a  remarkable  town,  barely  half 
a  dozen  years  old,  but  containing  a  population  of  over 
four  thousand,  about  one-third  only  being  native  Amer- 
icans, the  others  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  earth 
almost.  As  they  approached  the  town,  and  the  houses 
and  manners  and  speech  of  the  people  began  to  betoken 
the  foreign  element,  Mr.  Burns  exclaimed,  sweeping  his 
arm  comprehensively  over  the  landscape  and  widening 
the  range  of  his  inner  vision  until  it  took  in  all  the  broad 
land  of  Columbia,  "What  other  country  under  heaven 
M*  273 


274 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


could  stand  such  a  mighty  influx  of  foreign  immigration  ! 
could  take  all  these  strange  chickens  under  its  wings,  and 
clothe  and  feed  and  preserve  them  in  harmony  with  each 
other?" 

"I  look  upon  foreign  immigration,  when  it  takes  the 
attitude  of  a  peaceable  farming  community,"  returned 
Mr.  Courtenay,  "as  it  appears  to  about  here,  as  a  rather 
good  thing  for  the  country." 

Mr.  Burns,  disgusted  at  having  the  wind  taken  out  of 
his  sails,  retorted,  "Who  would  dispute  that !  But  it  does 
not  always  take  the  attitude  of  a  peaceable  farming  com- 
munity. It  is  oftentimes  a  seething,  boiling,  formidable 
element,  fomenting  in  and  throughout  our  domains.  It 
lifts  up  its  voice  in  the  councils  of  the  nation,  and  impu- 
dently meddles  in  all  our  affairs.  And  yet,"  he  continued, 
expanding  again,  "Brother  Jonathan  goes  serenely  and 
powerfully  on,  carrying  forward  his  mighty  projects, 
maintaining  the  dignity  of  his  institutions,  and  holding 
easily,  confidently,  and  securely  the  reins  of  his  stupen- 
dous government.  He  is  a  brewer  on  a  larger  scale,  is 
Brother  Jonathan,  and  the  scum  of  his  boiling  works  off 
in  the  process  of  naturalization.  America  is  a  grand  idea! 
Human  progress  couldn't  have  got  along  without  it." 

He  paused,  and,  as  Mr.  Courtenay  made  no  response 
(he  was  going  over  the  impending  lawsuit  in  his  mind, 
and  paying  little  attention  to  Mr.  Burns's  eulogies  of  the 
nation),  he  lost  himself  in  contemplation  of  the  sublime 
picture  he  had  called  up. 

They  drove  into  town  and  drew  up  at  the  nearest 
American  hotel, — or  what  by  its  sign-board  and  other 
pretensions  purported  to  be  American, — the  landlord  of 
which  came  out  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and,  to  their  inquiry 
about  board  and  lodging,  sorrowfully  shook  his  head. 

He  could  give  them  a  dinner,  but  not  a  bed.  He  "  wass 
werry  full ;  he  haf  so  many  boarders  und  travellers,  und 
de  court  wass  met,  und  dere  wass  theater  dis  veek,  und  so 
much  beoples."  Evidently  he  regretted  his  inability  to 
serve  them  as  much  as  they  regretted  it. 

"  We  should  have  written  and  engaged  rooms  as  they 
do  at  watering-places,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  ruefully. 

However,  they  dismounted  and  went  into  the  office. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


275 


A  number  of  men  were  sitting  and  standing  about,  talk- 
ing and  smoking,  and  waiting  the  final  summons  to  dinner. 
Before  Mr.  Courtenay  had  fairly  relieved  himself  of  his 
outside  wrappings,  a  gentleman,  stepping  in  from  the 
street  and  hastily  removing  a  cigar  from  his  lips,  came 
up  and  grasped  his  hand  with  much  more  warmth  than 
ceremony.  "  Bless  my  soul,  Courtenay  !  is  it  possible  ?" 
he  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  who  held  that  a  man's  personal  dignity 
is  apt  to  be  impaired  by  such  hearty  familiarity,  lifted  his 
eyes  a  little  coldly  to  the  speaker's  dark,  attenuated  face ; 
but  travelling  back  mentally  in  the  space  of  a  second 
to  his  college-days,  he  placed  it  (somewhat  changed) 
among  the  best  faces  of  his  recollection,  and  very  cor- 
dially returned  the  greeting. 

"What,  Woodbury!"  said  he.  "How  is  it  I  meet 
you  here?" 

"You  find  me  at  home,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "I 
have  hailed  from  this  place  for  the  last  five  years.  I  did 
not  hear  until  a  short  time  ago  that  you  were  retained  on 
this  suit ;  I  have  been  out  of  town.  I  learned  some  time 
ago  that  you  were  located  at  High-Water-Mark, — a  God- 
forsaken little  hamlet,  isn't  it? — excuse  me, — and  always 
intended  running  down  to  see  you,  but  I  haven't  made  it 
out  yet." 

Mr.  Courtenay  introduced  Mr.  Burns,  to  whom  Mr. 
Woodbury,  who  was  still  holding  fast  to  him,  at  once 
transferred  his  hand. 

"I  am  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  he  said, 
cordially.  "You  are  both  employed  on  this  case,  are 
you  not?" 

"I  assist  Mr.  Courtenay,"  Mr.  Burns  modestly  returned. 

"You  are  on  the  right  side,  but  you  have  strong  oppo- 
sition," said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "The  Marchmonts  of 

N City  are  considered  the  best  legal  talent  we  have 

got  around  here." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  and  felt  his 
spirits  rising.  He  liked  to  "  lock  horns  with  his  equals." 

"  Parke  Marchmont,"  continued  Mr.  Woodbury,  "ex- 
pects to  be  our  next  congressman  ;  he  is  working  for  the 
nomination  already.  I  wish,  for  my  part,  we  had  some 


276  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

good  man  to  put  up  against  him.  By  the  way,  Courtenay, 
why  not  you  ?  I  always  thought  you  would  make  a  states- 
man." 

"Circumstances  have  gone  against  me,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay. 

"Or,  rather,  he  goes  against  circumstances,"  put  in 
Mr.  Burns. 

"I  suspect  that  is  the  way  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury, 
smiling ;  "he  was  always  so  confoundedly  proud.  Do 
you  remember  how,  instead  of  Courtenay,  we  used  to  call 
you  Coriolanus?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  looked  as  if  he  did  not  relish  the  rem- 
iniscence. The  bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Woodbury  accompa- 
nied them  into  the  dining-room.  Two  gentlemen  came 
in  presently  and  sat  down  opposite  to  them.  Mr.  Wood- 
bury  looked  up,  recognized  them,  and  introduced  them 
as  the  Marchmont  brothers ;  upon  which  they  all  con- 
versed together  with  the  freedom  and  suavity  common 
among  men.  When  they  arose  from  the  table,  however, 
the  two  parties  at  once  separated, — the  Marchmonts  going 
off  up-street,  and  the  others  stepping  into  the  office  again. 

Mr.  Courtenay  asked,  "Where  can  we  get  lodging, 
Woodbury?  We  are  in  a  quandary." 

"  Has  our  Dutch  friend  no  accommodations?"  asked 
Mr.  Woodbury.  "  I  suppose  not,  though  ;  they  seem  to 
be  crowded  here.  Why,  damn  it !  come  home  with  me ; 
we  have  room  enough  for  a  dozen." 

It  seemed  to  be  a  sudden  inspiration. 

"Then  you  are  a  family  man?"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"  Certainly.  Why,  Lord  bless  you  !  I've  been  married 
— years.  I  don't  just  remember  how  many;  my  wife 
could  tell  you  the  exact  date.  Have  I  the  advantage  of 
you?" 

"Of  both  of  us,"  said  Mr.  Burns;  his  question  in- 
cluded them  both. 

"  Let  me  see  ;  are  you  going  up  to  the  court-house?" 
asked  Mr.  Woodbury. 

They  said  they  supposed  so. 

"  Then  I'll  send  a  despatch  to  Belle, — to  my  wife, — 
and  go  with  you." 

He  went  to  the  desk  and  scribbled  a  hasty  line,  and 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


277 


gave  it  to  a  boy  to  carry  to  Mrs.  Woodbury,  and  then 
they  stepped  out. 

"I  dislike  to  inconvenience  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Courte- 
nay,  regretfully.  "Isn't  there  some  private  boarding- 
house, — anything  that  could  give  us  shelter?" 

"  Lord,  yes  !  there  are  a  dozen  Dutch  hovels  that  could 
accommodate  you  right  here  in  this  neighborhood.  Would 
you  like  to  look  at  some  of  them?" 

The  young  men  laughed  and  declined. 

"Smart-looking  fellows!"  said  one  of  a  knot  of  men 
clustered  around  the  office-stove  as  they  went  out. 

"Yes,"  responded  another.  "The  dark  one — that's 
Courtenay,  isn't  it — has  an  eye  in  his  head  that  I'll  wager 
would  hold  a  jury." 

"  Humph !  the  other  one  has  the  keenest  eye  to  my 
thinking,"  said  a  third. 

"  Did  you  see  Parke  Marchmont  taking  the  measure 
of  them?  Ha,  ha!  it'll  take  him  to  the  end  of  his  tape- 
line,  I  guess." 

"I  mean  to  attend  that  trial  straight  through,"  said 
the  first  speaker  ;  "  there'll  be  some  sharp  practice.  I've 
heard  say  those  High-Water-Mark  lawyers  would  be  more 
than  a  match  for  the  Marchmonts.  I  think  they  have  the 
best  side." 

"As  to  right,  yes;  as  to  money,  no." 

"If  they  win,  they'll  have  money  as  well  as  right." 

"Ever  been  to  High-Water-Mark?"  A  runner  for  an 
Eastern  dry-goods  house  threw  out  the  question  care- 
lessly, and  one  of  the  before-mentioned  speakers  took  it 
up  and  answered,  "  No." 

"You  would  be  surprised  to  see  such  fine  birds  come 
out  of  so  shabby  a  nest,"  said  he. 

An  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  not  spoken  before, 
shook  his  head  and  replied,  charitably,  "You  can't  judge 
a  man  by  the  place  he  hails  from  in  this  Western  country. 
Wait  till  they  have  had  time  to  build  their  nests." 

The  young  men  accompanied  Mr.  Woodbury  home  in 
the  evening,  with  a  good  deal  of  reluctance,  which  they 
tried  to  cover  up,  feeling  that  an  invitation  so  cordially 
given  ought  to  be  accepted  with  a  good  grace,  especially 
as  there  was  no  alternative. 

24 


278  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Mr.  Woodbury's  residence,  a  pretty  and  tasteful  frame 
structure,  was  situated  at  the  upper  end  of  the  town,  and 
a  little  isolated  from  other  houses ;  having  a  large  space 
of  ground  around  it,  decorated  with  trees  and  shrubbery, 
and  enclosed  by  a  neat  picket  fence. 

"You  say  you  have  lived  here  only  five  years?"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  as  they  walked  up  from  the  gate. 

"Only  five  years,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "I  went  to 
work  the  minute  I  got  here,  and  built  my  house,  laid  out 
my  grounds,  and  put  out  the  trees  and  bushes.  Back  of 
the  house  you  will  find  a  raspberry  patch,  a  bed  of  straw- 
berry vines,  a  grove  of  wild  plum-trees,  et  caetera." 

"You  have  done  wonders  !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"I  accomplished  all  that  in  one  year,"  continued 
Mr.  Woodbury,  "and  then  I  went  back  East  after  my 
wife." 

"  Oh,  then  you  didn't  bring  her  with  you  at  first  ?" 

"No;  bless  your  soul,  she  nearly  cried  her  eyes  out  as 
it  was,  over  the  desolateness  of  the  Western  country." 

"Burr,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "why  couldn't  we  fix  up 
some  of  our  lots  in  High-Water-Mark?  We  could  put 
fences  around  them  and  set  out  trees  and  shrubbery,  and 
so  help  along  the  town,  besides  making  the  lots  more 
salable." 

"We  might,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  but  his  inflection 
conveyed  no  strong  assurance  that  the  thing  would  be 
done. 

The  hall  door,  when  they  mounted  the  steps,  proved  to 
be  locked,  and  Mr.  Woodbury  rang  the  bell. 

"My  wife  and  her  'help',"  he  explained,  with  an 
amused  smile  he  always  wore  when  he  in  any  way  referred 
to  Mrs.  Woodbury,  "are  both  cowardly  little  souls,  and 
protect  themselves  with  bar  and  bolt,  in  the  absence  of 
the  head  of  the  house." 

Presently  a  light  step  came  tripping  along  the  hall,  and 
Mr.  Woodbury,  with  a  low,  pleasant  laugh  and  a  nod  to  his 
companions,  as  much  as  to  say,  "It's  my  wife,"  tapped 
a  peculiar  little  tap  on  the  door,  and  instantly  bolt  and 
bar  were  withdrawn  and  it  flew  open,  and  the  daintiest 
of  little  women,  with  coal-black  eyes  and  a  smiling  mouth, 
stood  to  welcome  them.  One  of  her  small  hands  found 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


279 


its  way  into  her  husband's,  which  was  not  lost  upon  Mr. 
Burns,  who  envied  men  that  had  sweet  wives  and  pleasant 
homes. 

"  Well,  wife,  here  are  the  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Wood- 
bury.  "Did  you  get  my  despatch?  Mr.  Courtenay; 
Mr.  Burns." 

"  Yes,  I  got  your  despatch,"  she  returned.  "  How  do 
you  do,  gentlemen  ?  Mr.  Courtenay,  my  husband,  has 
spoken  of  you  to  me  many  times,  and  you  are  welcome  to 
my  house." 

She  extended  her  hand  last  to  Mr.  Burns,  making  it 
even  between  them  by  leading  him  toward  the  parlor 
door,  the  others  following.  As  for  Mr.  Burns,  when  the 
light  of  the  suspended  lamp  in  the  parlor  (for  it  was  dusk) 
struck  her  pretty,  piquant  face,  it  seemed  to  him  there  was 
something  strangely  familiar  in  it,  though  he  could  place 
it  nowhere  among  the  faces  of  his  recollection. 

"  I  believe  we  ought  to  apologize  for  intruding  upon 
you,"  Mr.  Courtenay  began,  with  stiff  politeness,  before 
seating  himself  in  the  chair  she  wheeled  around  for  him  ; 
but  she  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of  her  little  fore- 
finger. 

"  Don't  speak  of  intruding;  if  you  had  lived  as  long  in 
the  West  as  I  have,  and  seen  as  little  society,  and  been  as 
hungry  for  home  faces  sometimes,  you  wouldn't  apologize 
for  coming  into  an  old  friend's  house!  Besides,"  she 
added,  gayly,  "I  was  expecting  you;  my  Tom  had  the 
unwonted  forethought  to  send  me  an  avant- courier  /" 
Looking  up  archly  at  her  tall,  broad-shouldered  spouse, 
who  smiled  down  upon  her  with  the  utmost  pride  and 
affection,  feeling  no  solicitude  about  the  impression  she 
might  make,  fastidious  as  he  knew  his  friend  Courtenay 
to  be. 

"But  is  it  not  strange,"  said  he,  "that  I  had  the  fore- 
thought to  bring  them  here!  eh,  wife?  My  wife,  you 
see,  is  so  eminently  hospitable  that  I  have  gradually  eased 
my  mind  of  responsibility  in  that  direction,  and  trust  the 
social  matters  all  to  her.  So  much  so  that  she  accuses 
me  of  negligence  sometimes." 

"Mr.  Courtenay,"  said  Mrs.  Woodbury,  "if  you  are 
acquainted  with  my  husband  you  will  not  be  surprised  to 


28o  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

hear  that  he  has  eased  his  mind  of  a  good  many  other 
responsibilities,  and  handed  them  over  to  his  wife." 

Mr.  Courtenay,  relaxing  wonderfully  under  her  influ- 
ence, replied,  with  a  laugh,  "Tom  always  was  noted  for 
thoughtlessness." 

Mr.  Burns  felt  that  there  was  something  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  Mr.  Woodbury's  home,  pervaded  by  the  pres- 
ence of  his  sprightly  wife,  which  made  him  appear  to 
better  advantage  there  than  elsewhere. 

Almost  immediately  after  they  were  seated,  and  before 
they  had  time  to  fall  into  any  of  the  awkward  silences 
which  frequently  occur  after  the  first  gush  of  welcomings 
and  inquiries,  among  people  who  are  wholly  new  and  un- 
assimilated  to  one  another,  a  little  silver  bell  jingled  and 
Mrs.  Woodbury  led  her  guests  out  to  tea,  which  was 
served  in  a  small  recess  opening,  by  an  arched  entrance, 
into  the  sitting-room.  The  table,  elegantly  spread,  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  was  surrounded  by  a 
wilderness  of  plants  and  flowers.  Delicate  vines  were 
wreathed  round  picture-frames  and  brackets,  and  looped 
in  graceful  festoons  along  the  edge  of  the  ceiling;  some 
exquisite  white  statuettes  on  the  mantle  peeped  out  from 
perfect  little  bowers  of  green  leaves,  and  in  a  miniature 
grove  of  fuchsias  and  geraniums  blooming  in  a  bay  win- 
dow, the  crimson  curtains  of  which  were  looped  back, 
hung  a  canary  bird's  cage.  Mr.  Burns,  who  had  a  natural 
affinity  for  refinements  of  all  kinds,  brightened  up  with 
his  most  expansive  expression ;  he  took  the  liberty  of 
congratulating  Mrs.  Woodbury  on  her  successful  creation 
of  a  fairy-land. 

Mrs.  Woodbury  blushed  at  the  flattery  most  fairy  house- 
wives are  susceptible  to,  and  replied,  "  Thank  you,  Mr. 
Burns ;  your  appreciation  does  me  good.  My  Tom  is 
blind  to  the  beauties  of  my  kingdom  !" 

"Wife,  you  know  I  used  rather  to  like  your  flowers," 
returned  Mr.  Woodbury,  meeting  her  smilingly  reproving 
glance.  "But  from  practical  experience  in  taking  care 
of  them  through  several  severe  winters,"  addressing  Mr. 
Burns,  "I  begin  to  fail  of  seeing  any  profit  in  them. 
Why,  sir," — ignoring  the  admonitory  shake  of  his  wife's 
little  forefinger, — "  the  fuel  those  things  cause  to  be  con- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  2  8 1 

sumed,  yearly,  is  no  inconsiderable  item  in  this  woodless 
country  as  a  matter  of  domestic  economy.  That  rose 
which  you  see  blushing  so  beautifully  yonder,  represents 
to  me  simply  an  inestimable  amount  of  care  and  anxiety, 
to  say  nothing  of  expense,  to  preserve  it  intact.  And 
after  all,"  he  continued  in  away  that  was  highly  amusing 
to  his  guests,  taken  in  connection  with  the  defiant,  pretty 
face  opposite,  whose  charming  remonstrance  he  seemed 
to  like  to  challenge,  "what  is  a  rose?  A  pretty,  fleeting, 
evanescent  thing  !  a  bit  of  color  and  a  breath  of  perfume. 
The  only  tangible  thing  about  it  is  the  getting  up  bitter 
cold  nights  to  make  fires  for  it." 

He  ended  with  his  pleasant,  half-inaudible  laugh,  draw- 
ing his  napkin  across  his  mouth  and  looking  at  his  wife. 

"  Don't  listen  to  him,  gentlemen  1"  she  said,  "  for  the 
sake  of  the  future  Mrs.  Burns  and  Mrs.  Courtenay,  who 
may  have  a  taste  for  house-plants." 

"If  they  do  have  that  deplorable  taste,"  said  Mr.  Wood- 
.bury,  "  pray  don't  encourage  its  cultivation.  I  used  to 
bring  home  all  the  green  things  I  could  find,  to  please 
my  wife." 

"You  see,  Mr.  Burns,  he  speaks  of  pleasing  his  wife  in 
the  past  tense  !"  she  said.  "  The  way  .of  it  is,  we  have 
got  to  have  fires  all  the  time,  anyhow,  to  keep  other 
things  from  freezing.  My  poor  plants  are  the  scape- 
goat." 

There  was  a  piano  in  the  sitting-room,  and  after  tea 
Mr.  Woodbury  said,  "Belle,  can't  you  give  us  a  little 
music?" 

The  invitation  was  warmly  seconded  by  the  visitors, 
and  Mrs.  Woodbury  seated  herself,  turned  the  leaves  of  a 
huge  book  of  bound  sheet  music  and  began  an  airy  fantasia ; 
and  her  husband  took  the  young  men  slyly  into  his  confi- 
dence so  much  as  to  say  that  she  was  considered  a  very 
fine  performer.  After  which  he  bestowed  himself  com- 
fortably upon  the  sofa,  propped  his  cheek  upon  his  hand 
and  closed  his  eyes,  shutting  out  sight  for  the  more  com- 
plete enjoyment  of  sound,  it  might  be  supposed.  Mr. 
Burns,  lying  back  in  an  easy-chair,  watched  the  dexterous 
fingers  fly  over  the  keys,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  joy- 
ous influence  of  the  musical  rhythm.  Mr.  Courtenay, 

24* 


282  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

dimly  listening,  embraced  the  opportunity  to  go  over  the 
impending  lawsuit  again.  When  the  music  ceased,  Mr. 
Woodbury  arose  and  stepped  into  the  hall  for  his  overcoat 
and  hat. 

"  The  mail  comes  in  about  this  time,"  he  said.  "  Will 
either  of  you  walk  down  street  ?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  arose. 

"If  you  are  going,  Burr,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "I  will 
excuse  myself  and  remain  with  Mrs.  Woodbury,  if  she 
will  allow  me." 

"  My  wife  will  be  very  glad  of  your  company,"  said 
Mr.  Woodbury. 

"Indeed,  I  will!"  she  exclaimed;  and  then,  as  the 
door  closed  upon  the  other  two,  she  added,  "Oh,  no- 
body gets  so  lonely  as  I  these  long  winter  evenings  !  It 
is  such  a  calamity  to  me  that  the  mail  comes  in  at  this 
hour.  Mr.  Woodbury  wouldn't  always  go  down  town 
after  supper,  if  it  wasn't  for  that;  and  then  when  he  goes 
and  gets  among  the  men,  he  never  realizes  how  fast  the 
time  is  going  with  him  and  how  slowly  with  me." 

Mr.  Burns,  lying  back  in  his  easy-chair,  slowly  rocking 
himself  to  and  fro  and  feeling  very  luxurious,  said,  in  his 
heart,  that  if  he.  were  situated  as  Mr.  Woodbury  was — 
such  a  beautiful  home  and  such  a  charming  wife — the 
mail  and  the  men  down  town  might  go  to  thunder  ;  he 
would  spend  his  evenings  at  home. 

"  Mrs.  Woodbury,"  he  said,  suddenly,  leaning  forward 
and  looking  at  her,  "excuse  me,  but  have  I  not  some- 
where met  you  before?  Your  face  is  unaccountably  fa- 
miliar to  me." 

Mrs.  Woodbury  laughed. 

"I  was  waiting  to  see  if  you  would  remember  me;  I 
thought  you  would  by  and  by.  I  recognized  you  almost 
immediately.  I  hardly  know  how  to  recall  myself  to 
you,  without  mentioning  a  mutual  friend  of  ours,  Wilma 
Lynne." 

Mr.  Burns  started  and  flushed. 

Mrs.  Woodbury  had  purposely  thrust  the  name  upon 
him,  and  watched  narrowly,  without  apparent  interest, 
its  effect. 

He  sat  still  for  a  moment  and  then  answered,  "I  re- 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  283 

member.  You  were  Miss  Raymond,  the  governor's 
daughter." 

"Yes;  they  always  called  me  the  'governor's  daugh- 
ter' at  Crawford,"  said  Mrs.  Woodbury,  smiling,  and 
added  (speaking  to  herself),  pathetically,  "  Poor  papa!" 

A  long  pause  followed,  but  not  an  awkward  one. 
Mr.  Burns  was  too  deeply  stirred  to  be  conscious,  and 
Mrs.  Woodbury's  faithful  and  affectionate  memory  was 
recalled  to  the  death  of  her  father,  whom  she  had  ten- 
derly loved  and  whom  she  still  deeply  mourned.  From 
thinking  of  him  she  passed  on  to  thinking  of  her  brothers, 
and  suddenly  burst  out  with, — "  Oh,  Mr.  Burns,  I  have 
just  remembered,  you  were  with  Starr  when  he  was  shot 
down !" 

Mr.  Burns  slowly  gathered  up  his  thoughts. 

"With  Starr?  Oh,  yes,  yes.  I  held  him  up  in  my 
arms  while  he  breathed  his  last  gasp.  Poor  fellow  !  he 
hardly  knew  what  hurt  him,  his  death  was  so  sudden." 

Mrs.  Woodbury's  tears  were  falling  fast.  Presently 
she  dashed  them  away  and  looked  up. 

"  Do  you  know,  it  never  occurred  to  me  until  this  mo- 
ment that  my  husband's  much-praised  college  friend  was 
this  same  Captain  Courtenay,  the  head  of  my  brother's 
company,  and  your  bosom  companion  !  Now,  isn't  that 
singular?  We  used  to  hear  so  much  about  Captain  Courte- 
nay, and  to  think  I  am  entertaining  him  in  my  house  ! 
I  remember  asking  Mr.  Woodbury  once  if  he  thought 
they  were  related,  and  he  said  it  was  not  at  all  likely. 
Well,  well,  what  a  dice-box  the  world  is !  Forever 
shaking  us  up  and  dropping  us  out  in  all  sorts  of  attitudes 
towards  each  other.  They  said  he  and  Miss  Maclvers 
seemed  to  admire  each  other  so  much.  But  she  went 

away  before  the  regiment  left  R .  And  do  you  know, 

Mr.  Burns,"  Mrs.  Woodbury  continued,  impressively, 
"  that  Miss  Maclvers  went  into  the  hospitals,  and  by  some 
means — heaven  knows  what ! — she  was  killed  ;  and  her 
body,  which  had  been  buried,  was  taken  up  and  brought 

back  to  R ,  and  interred  in  the  beautiful  cemetery 

there,  and  a  splendid  monument  erected  over  it." 

Mr.  Burns  sat  as  numb  as  a  stone  and  made  no  answer. 
He  felt  as  if  it  was  the  shaking  off  of  a  horrible  night- 


284  HIGH  WA  TER-MARK. 

mare  when  the  outside  hall-door  opened,  and  he  heard 
the  men's  voices.  He  got  up  and  took  a  turn  around  the 
room.  His  face  was  so  pale  that  Mr.  Cqurtenay  observed 
it,  and  asked,  when  they  went  up-stairs  to  bed,  "Aren't 
you  feeling  well,  Charley?"  with  a  solicitude  he  always 
showed  for  his  friend,  but  for  nothing  else. 

"  No,  not  very  well.  Do  you  know,  Burr,  this  Mrs. 
Woodbury  is  a  sister  of  Starr  Raymond's?" 

"No;  is  she?     How  did  you  find  out  ?" 

"  I  used  to  meet  her  when  I  went  to  Crawford  Academy 
to  visit  a  friend,  and  she  remembered  me." 

"Ah,  Crawford  Academy!  I  suspect  you  had  some 
disturbing  conversation  then.  Did  she  refer  to  her 
brother?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  and — and  to  Miss  Maclvers.  Her  remains, 
she  says,  were  taken  up  and  removed  to  R ." 

Few  words  suffice  for  a  subject  so  fraught  with  pain  and 
horror,  and  nothing  more  was  said. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE  following  morning,  after  breakfast,  Mr.  Woodbury 
invited  his  guests  into  the  library,  with  the  offer  of  cigars, 
which  Mr.  Burns  declined. 

"  Ah  !  don't  smoke?  Then  perhaps  you  don't  care  to 
accompany  us?  In  which  case  I  have  no  doubt  my  wife 
will  be  glad  to  entertain  you  here.  I  have  an  idea  you 
and  she  are  rather  congenial,  on  the  subject  of  flowers, — 
at  any  rate,"  laughing. 

Mrs.  Woodbury  retorted  that  she  was  glad  to  entertain 
any  gentleman  who  didn't  smoke.  Mr.  Burns  was  well 
pleased  ;  he  liked  women's  society-;  it  brought  out  the 
truest,  tenderest  side  of  him.  Mr.  Woodbury  closed  the 
library  door  and  opened  a  window  a  little  way. 

"My  wife  is  particular  about  my  smoking,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  I  am  not  to  light  a  cigar  anywhere  about  the 
house  but  here,  and  I  am  instructed  always  to  ventilate  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  285 

little  so  that  the  tobacco-scent  will  not  settle  on  the  books 
and  things." 

He  drew  up  an  arm-chair  for  himself,  motioned  Mr. 
Courtenay  to  another,  and  they  sat  down  with  a  spittoon 
between  them,  their  feet  elevated  at  a  comfortable  angle. 

"It  takes  some  time,"  Mr.  Woodbury  continued,  "to 
learn  all  one's  matrimonial  lessons.  My  wife,  as  you  may 
observe,  is  quite  the  pink  of  particularity.  I  was  a  good 
while  getting  broken  in  to  her  exact  ways;  though  now, 
I  flatter  myself,  I  am  beginning  to  run  pretty  smoothly. 
How  is  it  you  are  not  married,  Courtenay  ?  You  came 
West  shortly  after  graduating  in  the  law-school,  didn't 
you?" 

They  had  talked  it  all  up  at  the  breakfast-table,  about 
Mr.  Woodbury's  college  friend  -being  one  and  the  same 
with  the  famous  Captain  Courtenay,  whom  his  wife  re- 
membered so  well.  Mr.  Woodbury's  last  question  cov- 
ered up  the  first  so  that  Mr.  Courtenay  saw  no  necessity 
for  replying  to  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  he.  "I  came  West  shortly  after  graduating, 
and  when  the  war  broke  out  I  went  into  the  army.  Sub- 
sequently, after  travelling  about  a  little,  I  found  my  way 
out  here." 

"And  how  the  devil  did  you  come  to  settle  in  High- 
Water-Mark?"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "A  town  without  a 
railroad,  or  any  other  advantages,  I  suppose?" 

"  It  has  the  advantage  of  being  the  finest  site  for  a  town 
of  any  place  I  know,"  returned  Mr.  Courtenay,  with 
some  spirit.  And  added,  with  his  customary  sanguinity 
touching  that  point,  "Besides,  we  shall  have  a  railroad 
before  long." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury,  knitting  his  brows, 
"what  possessed  you  to  come  West,  anyhow!  Your 
chances  were  good  in  the  East,  damn  it !  You  could 
have  held  your  own  with  the  best  of  them." 

Mr.  Courtenay  made  no  answer,  but  watched  the  little 
cloud  of  smoke  he  was  sending  up  and,  by  and  by,  asked, 
"  Do  you  practice  law?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "I  am  engaged 
in  the  land- office  business." 

"Pays  well,  doesn't  it?" 


286  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

"  Pretty  well.  One  has  a  good  many  chances.  I  buy 
up  tax-titles,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Don't  you  speculate 
any?" 

"  No.  That  is,  very  little.  The  fact  is  I  hate  dab- 
bling in  anything  outside  the  profession.  Burns  and 
myself  have  some  land  ;  we  get  hold  of  a  piece  occasion- 
ally ;  I  suppose  we  shall  make  something  out  of  it  after 
a  while." 

"Oh,  yes;  certainly  you  will,  if  you  hold  on  to  it. 
The  law,  Courtenay, — one  can't  live  on  the  law  !  It's 
a  good  starting-point ;  but  you  have  got  to  reach  beyond 
it.  I  remember  you  were  never  practical ;  you  always 
let  the  boys  get  the  advantage  of  you  in  money  matters. 
You  were  cut  out  for  something  higher  than  a  financial 
career.  We  used  to  prophesy  you  would  make  a  poet  or 
an  orator,  or  something  out  of  the  ordinary  line.  How- 
ever, much  depends  on  circumstances.  The  present  times 
don't  seem  to  demand  a  Homer  or  a  Cicero,  and  so  there 
are  no  Homers  and  Ciceros  forthcoming.  I  have  no 
doubt  they  would  rise  up  if  the  exigencies  of  the  day 
called  them.  I  suspect  it  will  take  some  great  convulsion 
to  bring  you  out ;  the  world  will  never  get  the  best  there 
is  in  you  until  it  brings  some  mighty  force  to  bear  upon 
you." 

"It  brought  the  late  war,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "to 
bear  upon  me,  and  I  went  into  it,  and  came  out  of  it,  an 
obscure  captain." 

Unwittingly,  Mr.  Woodbury  had  touched  a  chord  in 
his  bosom  that  had  vibrated  on  his  life.  It  was  his  one 
intense  and  all-absorbing  consciousness  that  there  was 
within  him  a  strong  power  to  be  and  to  do,  if  occasion 
came ;  and  he  had  been  secretly  and  half-unconsciously 
preparing  himself  for  the  time  when  all  there  was  in  him, 
— all  he  could  accumulate  of  brain,  of  mental  power,  of 
culture,  would  be  demanded.  His  pride  and  his  reserve, 
his  loathing  to  take  hold  of  small  things  (or  things  that 
seemed  small  in  comparison  with  his  great  ideas)  were  a 
sort  of  saving  of  himself  toward  some  indefinite,  grand 
end. 

"The  late  war,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury,  "was  not  the 
right  kind  of  force.  I  can  sympathize  with  Halleck, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  287 

who,  when  asked  to  write  a  poem  on  it,  said,  '  No,  the 
rebellion  was  a  monstrous  mutiny.'  Besides,  the  days 
when  men  achieve  mighty  things  with  the  sword  are  over. 
Why  don't  you  go  into  politics?" 

"  I  am  on  the  wrong  side." 

"  Ah,  is  that  so?     Can't  you  come  over  ?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  shook  his  head. 

"I  remember,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury,  smiling,  "you 
were  always  a  stickler  for  principle.  But  do  you  know  I 
have  fancied  your  principles  were  hereditary, — handed 
down  to  you  from  an  aristocratic  ancestry,  like  your 
name  !" 

"You  spoke  yesterday,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "about 
putting  up  some  one  against  Marchmont  in  the  nomina- 
tion for  Congress.  Why  not  try  my  friend  Burns  ?  He 
votes  your  straight  ticket." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "Is  he  posted; 
can  he  talk?" 

"  He  can  talk  with  the  best  of  them.  I  believe  he 
could  travel  over  this  Congressional  district  and  win  more 
friends  than  any  other  man  in  it." 

"Personal  friends;  yes,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  He  is 
prepossessing ;  I  like  his  address.  But  political  friends, 
influential  friends,  are  what  one  needs." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "Still,  I  think 
it  might  be  done ;  we  have  some  time  to  work  in.  Of 
course,  one  of  the  chief  things  to  be  done  will  be  to  get 
the  people  acquainted  with  him  ;  he  is  not  known." 

"Oh,  damn  it,  that's  not  worth  a  continental!"  said 
Mr.  Woodbury.  "When  we  speak  of  the  people  we 
mean  the  party,  and  the  party  will  carry  him  through 
safe  enough,  if  by  hook  or  crook  we  can  get  his  name  on 
the  ticket.  You  get  him  the  nomination  in  your  county 
convention  next  spring,  and  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  him 

here.  I  have  some  little  influence  in  N City,  too.  I 

don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  entertain  a  personal  spite 
against  Marchmont,  and  would  rather  enjoy  defeating 
him." 

Mr.  Courtenay  reflected  that  he  would  not  explain  this 
latter  circumstance  to  his  friend.  Mr.  Burns  was  of  such 
a  peculiar  and  fastidious  disposition  that  he  would  not 


288  HIGH- WATER-MARK. 

enjoy  (to  say  the  least)  taking  advantage  of  any  sinister 
motives  on  the  part  of  his  helpers.  He  would  have  all 
things  open  and  above-board. 

"Have  you  and  Mr.  Burns  talked  it  up?"  asked  Mr. 
Wood  bury. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "And  really,  I  can't  say 
he  would  accept  the  nomination  if  it  were  offered  to  him. 
It  was  my  own  idea." 

Mr.  Woodbury  laughed  and  said  he  thought  it  would 
be  well,  before  taking  any  other  steps,  to  find  out.  He 
reached  for  the  cigars  and  passed  them  again  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"My  father,"  said  he,  "was  an  Episcopal  bishop  of 
the  diocese  of  Maryland,  as  you  may  perhaps  have  heard. 
He  never  smoked,  but  I  have  some  pleasant  recollections 
of  him  connected  with  my  early  experience  with  the  weed. 
His  study  opened  on  a  wide,  grassy  lawn,  where  I  used 
to  stroll  in  the  summer  evenings,  during  vacation,  smoking 
my  cigar.  Often  and  often  he  would  come  to  the  window, 
pen  in  hand, — I  can  see  his  tall  form  yet,  a  little  stooped 
at  the  shoulders,  and  his  benign  face  with  its  border  of 
thin,  white  hair  blown  about  by  the  wind, — and  call  to 
me.  And,  when  I  presented  myself  before  him,  cigar 
respectfully  removed,  but  knowing  very  well  what  would 
follow,  he  would  say,  '  Thomas,  my  son,  you  know  that  I 
have  always  opposed  your  smoking,  and  that  I  regard  it  as 
a  very  pernicious  and  entirely  unnecessary  practice ;  but, 
if  you  must  smoke, — mind,  I  say  if  you  must  smoke, — 
come  in  here  where  I  can  enjoy  the  odor  of  your  cigar  ! 
So,  then,  I  would  sit  in  his  easy-chair,  puffing  away  quite 
as  much  for  his  pleasure  as  my  own,  while  he  wrote  at 
his  desk.  I  never  knew  a  man  who  had  a  finer  taste  in 
the  matter  of  smoke,  and  yet  I  don't  think  he  ever  put  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth." 

"  Your  father  is  dead,  is  he  not  ?"  asked  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Oh,  yes.  He  died  about  the  time  I  was  married. 
I  was  married  in  Baltimore.  My  wife  was  staying  there 
with  her  grandmother  when  I  became  acquainted  with 
her." 

"You  are  not  a  member  of  the  Episcopal  Church?" 
asked  Mr.  Courtenay. 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  289 

"  No,  nor  of  any  other,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury.  "  I  well 
remember  how,  when  I  went  to  college,  I  cut  loose  from 
church  restraints  and  declared  myself  an  independent 
thinker.  My  father,  hearing  of  my  heresy,  came  up  to 
have  a  talk  with  me  ;  the  only  time  he  ever  visited  Har- 
vard ;  perhaps  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "I  remember  think- 
ing, as  he  sat  beside  President  K ,  looking  around 

upon  us  with  his  mild,  benevolent  eyes,  that  he  was  the 
most  beautiful  old  man  I  had  ever  seen  !  You  don't  re- 
semble him,  Woodbury." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Woodbury,  "  I  am  like  my  mother ; 
she  was  half  Spanish.  Well,  when  he  came  to  see  me,  I 
told  him  frankly — we  were  always  open  as  the  day  with 
him,  we  children — that  up  to  my  twentieth  year  I  had 
implicitly  and  obediently,  and  I  thought  blindly,  fol- 
lowed him,  and  that  then  I  had  begun  to  see  that  it  was 
time  for  me  to  stop  and  think ;  and  the  result  was  I  had 
sought  out  a  path  for  myself.  'In  which,'  said  he,  'it 
seems  you  have  been  going  at  a  pretty  good  jog  !  Well, 
my  son,  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  have  a  head  of  your 
own,  and  a  disposition  to  investigate  and  to  push  forward. 
But  don't  you  think  it  is  about  time  for  you  to  stop  and 
think  again  ?'  That  was  all ;  he  was  never  coercive  even 
in  things  which  he  considered  of  vital  importance  to  us 
after  we  were  able  to  reason.  Well,  I  did  stop  and  think, 
but  I  never  could  bring  myself  into  harmony  with  my 
father's  beloved  creed.  After  a  time  I  don't  think  it 
troubled  him  any.  He  came  to  say,  '  As  you  will,  Thomas ; 
I  see  that  it  is  no  idle  and  lawless  breaking  away  from  a 
righteous  restraint,  but  a  growing  out  of  it,  if  I  may  so 
speak.  You  have  reasoned  and  arrived  at  convictions ; 
which  is  the  right  of  every  man.  I  do  not  hold  you  to 
be  an  outlaw  like  one  who  tramples  down  the  walls  of  his 
church  and  scoffs  at  even  the  soul  of  religion.' ' 

They  had  some  more  conversation  relating  to  "  old 
times,"  in  which  Mr.  Woodbury  was  the  chief  talker; 
and  then  came  back  to  politics  again,  and  discussed  Mr. 
Burns's  possible  chances.  After  which  they  spoke  of  the 
impending  lawsuit,  in  which  Mr.  Woodbury  was  able  to 
post  his  friend  to  a  considerable  extent,  as  well  as  to  en- 
N  25 


290 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


lighten  him  respecting  public  sentiment  and  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  several  parties  involved. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Burns  and  Mrs.  Woodbury,  after 
conversing  in  a  lively  way  upon  various  topics,  pleasant 
to  both, — birds,  flowers,  books,  music,— drifted  back  to 
Crawford  Academy  again ;  each  being  anxious  to  know 
what  was  in  the  other's  mind  concerning  Wilma  Lynne, 
but  neither  liking  to  mention  her  name.  Mrs.  Woodbury 
had  all  a  woman's  curiosity  to  learn  what  had  been  the 
causes  of  separation  between  the  two  who  had  loved  each 
other  so  tenderly ;  and  Mr.  Burns  had  all  a  man's  anxiety 
to  find  out  what  had  befallen  the  woman  whom  he  had 
treated  cruelly,  however  inevitable  had  been  his  course  of 
action. 

"Did  you  know  Miss  Belmont  ?"  Mrs.  Woodbury 
asked. 

"I  knew  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  She  was  a  re- 
markable woman,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  a  beautiful  woman  !  One  of  the  loveliest  char- 
acters I  have  ever  known.  And  do  you  know,  Mr. 
Burns,"  said  Mrs.  Woodbury,  lowering  her  voice  to  its 
most  impressive  key  (Mrs.  Woodbury  was  fond  of  thrill- 
ing narrative),  "  that  she  was  mortally  wounded  by  the 
explosion  of  a  shell  at  Gettysburg,  where  she  was  taking 
care  of  some  disabled  and  dying  soldiers." 

"  Did  s/iequit  the  academy  and  go  into  the  hospitals?" 
asked  Mr.  Burns. 

"Oh,  yes;  and  the  curious  part  of  it  was  this:  We 
girls  used  to  believe,  though  we  scarcely  whispered  it  to 
each  other,  that  Miss  Belmont  had  a  strong,  secret  affec- 
tion for  Professor  Ingraham.  Not  an  impure  affection  ; 
but  a  kind  of  grand,  reverential  love.  It  used  to  speak 
out  in  her  sweet,  patient  eyes,  sometimes  ;  but  I  think 
she  would  have  died  at  the  stake  rather  than  give  any 
other  evidence  of  it.  Well,  when  she  lay  dying,  in  a 
large  building  that  had  been  turned  into  a  temporary  hos- 
pital, it  happened  that  Mr.  Ingraham,  who  was  a  colonel 
then,  was  brought  in,  faint  and  bleeding.  Some  one  re- 
marked, in  his  hearing,  that  Miss  Belmont  was  about 
breathing  her  last.  He  sprang  up  from  the  couch  where 
he  lay,  and  asked  '  Who  is  that  ?'  They  told  him  '  A 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


291 


nurse;  Miss  Belmont.'  'Good  God!'  said  he;  'can  it 
be  Lucile?'  and  rushed  into  the  little  chamber  where  she 
lay,  and  called  her  name.  The  nurse,  who  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed  watching  her,  and  who  told  me  the  story, 
said  she  had  thought  a  moment  before  that  Miss  Belmont 
was  dead.  Her  forehead  was  clammy,  her  eyelids  drooped, 
and  her  form  was  rigid  and  cold.  But  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice  her  eyes  opened  instantly,  and  shone  with  inef- 
fable light.  '  I  never  before,'  said  the  nurse,  '  saw  a  soul 
so  stand  out,  as  it  were,  upon  a  human  face.'  ' 

When  Mrs.  Woodbury  finished  the  story  she  sat  for  a 
minute  or  two,  crying  silently ;  the  war  had  given  her 
many  a  wound  that  had  not  yet  stopped  bleeding.  Mr. 
Burns  got  up  and  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room  ; 
presently  he  stopped  and  asked, — 

"  Mrs.  Woodbury,  can  you  tell  me  where  Miss  Lynne 
is  now?" 

Mrs.  Woodbury  brushed  away  her  tears  with  her  hands, 
and  looked  up  with  a  little  hardening  of  expression.  She 
did  not  wish  to  feel  kindly  toward  this  man,  whom  she 
believed  had  wrecked  her  friend's  happiness;  but  some- 
how, against  her  will,  he  had  greatly  won  her  tenderness, 
with  his  gentle  ways,  his  half-melancholy  face,  and  appeal- 
ing, earnest,  sympathetic  eyes.  It  was  not  possible  to 
blame  him  harshly. 

•  "No,"  she  said;  "I  don't  know  where  she  is.  The 
last  I  heard  of  her — or  from  her — she  was  on  the  point  of 
going  to  New  York  among  her  father's  relatives.  They 
were  wealthy,  aristocratic  people,  I  believe.  You  knew, 
I  suppose,  that  her  family  was  entirely  broken  up?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  Again  Mrs.  Woodbury's  im- 
pressive manner  came  into  requisition.  "  Why,  her 
mother  and  her  little  sister  both  died  of  diphtheria ! 
You  know  how  prevalent  it  was  at  one  time ;  and  her 
brother  was  killed  in  some  battle,  I  forget  where.  Of  all 
the  lives  I  have  ever  known,  it  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Burns, 
that  Wilma  Lynne's  has  been  the  most  cruelly  shorn. 
She  founded  herself  upon  her  friends ;  her  whole  tender 
nature  was  rooted  in  them.  And  see  how  they  have 
dropped  away  from  her!  I  don't  know;  I  think  there 


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was  enough  in  her  to  get  above  it  all ;  if  so,  she  is  a  grand 
woman  to-day." 

Mr.  Burns  was  deeply  stirred,  and  felt — true  to  his 
mercurial  nature — an  intense  impulse  to  go  and  find 
Wilma  Lynne,  to  push  aside  space  and  whatever  other 
obstructions  divided  them,  and  meet  her  face  to  face, 
heart  to  heart,  again.  Of  course  it  was  impractical,  as 
many  of  his  impulses  were  ;  but  it  compelled  him,  for 
the  moment,  to  strong  energy  of  action.  He  asked  Mrs. 
Woodbury  to  excuse  him,  and  put  on  his  hat  and  went 
out  for  a  rushing,  headlong  walk  that  was  one  of  the 
habits  of  his  younger  days.  When  he  came  back,  a  little 
exhausted  in  body  and  his  recollection  soothed,  the  other 
gentlemen  were  coming  out  of  the  library  and  said  it  was 
time  to  go  down  to  the  court-house. 

Their  case  came  on  that  morning,  and  lasted  through 
the  week,  creating  intense  excitement.  There  were  a 
multitude  of  witnesses,  and  the  attorneys  were  all  shrewd 
and  wide-awake,  feeling  that  their  own  interests  in  many 
ways,  besides  the  interests  of  the  parties  implicated,  de- 
pended on  the  issue. 

The  day  upon  which  Parke  Marchmont  arose  to  plead, 
the  court-room  was  crowded  with  an  alert,  expectant  audi- 
ence. There  is  something  more  vitally  interesting  in  the 
eloquence  of  the  bar  than  in  that  of  pulpit,  stage,  or  ros- 
trum, because  it  is  concentrated  upon  a  particular  case  in 
hand.  There  is  something  tangible  for  it  to  fasten  itself 
upon.  Something  depends  upon  it, — waiting  for  a  public 
decision  that  will  strongly  affect  individuals.  And  say 
what  we  will  about  the  fascinations  of  abstract  things 
when  we  have  risen  up  so  as  to  grasp  them,  there  is  a 
humanity  in  us  all  that  makes  us  pause  and  look  on  with 
keen  attention  when  our  fellow-beings  are  struggling. 
Mr.  Marchmont,  to  begin  with,  was  very  prepossessing 
in  his  appearance  and  manners.  He  had  pleasant,  light- 
blue  eyes,  blonde  hair,  and  a  well-developed  figure,  such 
as  a  certain  class  of  complacent  men  attain  to  at  forty. 
His  personality  was  strong,  bland,  persuasive.  He  pleaded 
well ;  he  brought  out  the  claims  of  his  side  in  the  clearest 
light,  and  threw  those  of  the  other  into  obscurity.  It 
began  to  seem  absurd,  in  the  most  candid  minds,  that  the 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


293 


other  side  should  have  set  up  any  pretensions.  He  sat  down, 
when  he  had  concluded  his  lengthy  and  somewhat  flowery 
argument,  amid  thundering  applause,  and  Mr.  Courte- 
nay,  who  was  his  especially  recognized  opponent  (Mr. 
Burns  had  chiefly  conducted  the  examination  and  cross- 
examination  of  witnesses),  arose  to  follow  him.  At  the  first 
sound  of  his  marvellous  voice,  so  powerful  and  so  thrill- 
ing in  its  rare  modulation,  not  falling  upon  the  ear  simply 
but  striking  deep  into  the  emotions  that  are  susceptible  to 
the  finest  things  in  sight  and  sound  and  feeling,  the  people 
in  the  farthest  corners  of  the  room  raised  themselves  upon 
tip-toe  to  get  sight  of  him.  He  had  an  intense  personal 
magnetism  which,  combined  with  great  mastery  of  lan- 
guage, his  comprehension  of  men,  and  his  profound 
knowledge  of  law,  made  him  the  most  formidable  op- 
ponent Parke  Marchmont  had  ever  contended  against. 
A  few  human  beings  can  raise  and  sway  the  emotions  like 
the  swelling  of  the  sea,  and  we  cannot  define  the  subtle 
influence  that  makes  the  blood  curdle,  and  the  hair  rise, 
and  the  nerves  quiver,  and  the  muscles  grow  tense.  Mr. 
Courtenay  had  this  power,  and  upon  this  great  occasion 
it  was  fully  called  out. 

Mr.  Woodbury  had  the  satisfaction  of  confirming  to 
his  wife  what  he  had  often  affirmed  of  his  admired  friend 
and  school-fellow.  "  I  always  said,"  he  remarked,  "  that 
the  force  of  tremendous  circumstances  would  send  him  up 
like  a  sky-rocket." 

"  But  will  he  burn  out  as  quickly?"  asked  Mrs.  Wood- 
bury,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  with  a  shrug.  "  He'll  be  the  same  cold, 
reserved  fellow  to-morrow  that  he  was  yesterday." 

No  one  in  the  court-room  was  more  profoundly  stirred 
than  Mr.  Burns.  He  felt  a  strong,  new  impulse  of  en- 
thusiastic and  affectionate  pride  in  his  friend. 

Before  Mr.  Courtenay  had  taken  his  seat  it  was  felt, 
universally,  that  his  cause  had  triumphed.  When  he  came 
down  people  began  crowding  forward  for  a  nearer  view 
and  a  hand-shake.  But,  though  he  enjoyed  a  victory  and 
liked  the  breath  of  incense  when  it  floated  up  to  him  from 
afar,  he  hated  being  lionized  and  fawned  upon.  So  he 
had  quietly  stepped  out,  and,  linking  his  arm  in  Mr.  Burns's 

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294 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


(there  was  no  other  man  living  with  whom  he  would  have 
linked  arms),  walked  homeward.  When  they  reached 
Mr.  Woodbury's  gate,  Mr.  Burns  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
latch  and  paused  a  moment  and  said,  with  feeling, — 

"You  made  a  grand  plea,  Burr,  the  grandest  lever 
heard!" 

' '  It  annoyed  me  that  there  were  so  damned  many  women 
in  court,"  said  Burr,  and  Mr.  Burns  opened  the  gate  and 
passed  on. 

The  day  following,  on  the  drive  homeward,  after  a 
silence  not  unusual  between  the  two  friends,  Mr.  Courte- 
nay  remarked,  "  Woodbury  thinks  you  might  stand  a 
chance  to  get  the  nomination  for  Congress  next  spring." 

"I !"  said  Mr.  Burns,  to  whom  the  remark  had  a  sin- 
gular abruptness,  the  idea  it  carried  having  never  occurred 
to  him  as  among  the  possibilities  of  his  career;  though 
doubtless  it  had  floated  through  his  dreams  years  ago,  as 
in  the  case  of  most  American  youths. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "  Marchmont  isn't  very 
popular,  and  his  defeat  yesterday  will  go  against  him  and 
in  your  favor.  People  like  to  vote  for  the  best  man. 
You'll  have  to  advertise  yourself  a  little." 

"A  good  deal,  I  should  say,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  incred- 
ulously. But  Mr.  Courtenay's  matter-of-fact  way  of  put- 
ting the  question  began  already  to  inspire  him  with  a 
remote  hope,  against  which  he  immediately  began  to 
argue  by  way  of  clearing  up  the  ground. 

"What  likelihood  is  there  of  my  getting  the  nomina- 
tion ?"  said  he.  "  There  will  be  a  candidate  from  every 
county  in  the  district;  and  our  county  doesn't  take  the 
lead,  even  supposing  I  received  the  nomination  at  our 
convention." 

"There  will  be  no  trouble  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay. "And  I  am  convinced  you  have  made  a  point  at 
Hammond  Springs." 

"I  think  it  is  you  who  made  the  point  at  Hammond 
Springs,"  retorted  Mr.  Burns. 

"  No  matter,  it  will  be  known  at  N City  as  the 

High-Water-Mark  lawyers ;  and  N City  is  the  strong- 
hold of  your  party." 

"And  the  home  of  the  Marchmonts,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


295 


"You  must  recollect,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "that  a 
man  is  not  always  a  prophet  in  his  own  land.  Woodbury 
thinks  there  will  be  nothing  to  contend  against  there  ex- 
cept a  mere  local  pride  ;  and  he  assures  me  that  the  people 
of  that  thriving  town  are  by  no  means  narrow.  They 
are  at  least  big  enough  to  embrace  the  whole  district  and 
take  the  best  man  in  it." 

"  Then  I  would  recommend  you  to  their  consideration," 
said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  No,"  Mr.  Courtenay  returned.  "I  was  referring  to 
your  party.  There  are  none  of  us  broad  enough  to  go 
beyond  party  lines.  We  chain  a  candidate  to  our  plat- 
form as  we  chain  a  dog  in  the  back  yard.  I  couldn't  be 
your  candidate  because  you  couldn't  bring  me  near  enough 
to  get  the  shackles  on  my  feet." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  young  men's  return  from  Ham- 
mond Springs,  an  official-looking  package  was  brought 
into  the  office  by  the  errand-boy,  who  had  been  despatched 
for  the  mail,  which  proved  to  be  from  the  contractors  of 
a  railroad  that  had  been  several  times  surveyed  through 
the  country,  setting  forth  a  proposition,  on  their  part,  to 
go  on  and  construct  the  road,  and  asking  aid  ;  especially 
soliciting  the  influence  of  these  very  influential  attorneys. 
Mr.  Burns  came  up  at  once  to  a  high  pitch  of  enthusiasm, 
and  spent  several  days  about  town  talking  up  the  subject 
with  the  prominent  men  of  the  place.  When  in  the 
office,  too,  he  thought  and  spoke  of  nothing  else,  and 
was  a  good  deal  chafed  by  his  friend's  non-excitability, 
as  often  happened. 

"They  want  money  and  right  of  way,"  he  was  saying, 
one  evening  argumentatively. 

"Of  course,"  interrupted  Mr.  Courtenay,  to  whom 
that  fact  was  so  clear  that  it  seemed  useless  to  speak  of  it. 

"Well,  the  question  is,  how  are  they  to  get  it?     They 


296  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

must  get  it  through  us.    I  was  talking  with  Deacon  Clyde 
to-day." 

"And  what  does,the  deacon  think?"  said  Mr.  Courte- 
nay,  in  a  tone  implying  a  rather  contemptuous  regard  for 
the  deacon's  opinion,  whatever  it  might  be. 

"He  says,"  returned  Mr.  Burns,  "that  it  will  depend 
greatly  upon  you  and  me  whether  we  get  a  road  or  not." 

"He  flatters  us." 

"  No,  it  has  got  to  be  talked  into  the  people,  and  we 
must  do  the  talking." 

A  few  days  later,  the  president  of  the  company,  who 
was  an  old  college  friend  of  Mr.  Courtenay's,  and  who 
had  heard  of  him  through  Mr.  Woodbury,  took  a  trip  up 
the  line  and  came  to  see  him.  A  hearty,  cordial,  corpu- 
lent man,  to  whom  Mr.  Burns  gave  his  hand  with  great 
warmth. 

All  Mr.  Courtenay's  school  friends  had  the  same  high 
opinion  of  his  intellectual  power. 

"You  are  just  the  man  I  want,  Courtenay,"  said  the 
president.  "  I  can't  talk;  never  could,  except  in  a  blunt, 
matter-of-fact  way.  The  people,  you  see,  need  stirring 
up ;  and  it  takes  more  diplomacy  of  eloquence  to  touch 
men's  pockets  than  their  consciences.  They  have  settled 
down  here  on  these  prairies  and  have  learned  to  do  with- 
out many  conveniences.  They  do  all  their  own  work, 
they  haul  all  their  grain  off  to  other  markets,  and  they 
carefully  save  their  dollars.  They  don't  like  to  pay  out 
money  at  a  venture,  and  without  immediate  returns,  for 
a  railroad.  They  are  cautious,  skeptical,  doubtful.  Well, 
you  see,  their  faith  must  be  educated.  And  you,  my 
friend,"  laying  his  hand  upon  Mr.  Courtenay's  shoulder, 
and  not  perceiving  that  gentleman's  distaste  for  the  flat- 
tering insinuation,  "  must  be  the  educator." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  with  a  slight  shrug, 
at  which  the  hand  was  removed,  "that  I  must  turn  you 
over  to  Mr.  Burns,  who  greatly  transcends  me  in  the 
kind  of  ability  you  require  for  the  furtherance  of  your 
project." 

A  little  cooled  but  not  discouraged,  the  president  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  gave  Mr.  Burns  an  examining  look 
with  his  keen,  bright  eyes,  that  seemed  to  be  aided  in  any 


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297 


investigation  they  might  make  by  a  high,  prominent,  per- 
tinacious, Roman  nose.  The  result  appeared  to  be  satis- 
factory. Mr.  Burns  and  Mr.  Griggs  (the  president)  were 
soon  sailing  along  on  the  top  wave  of  railroad  enthusiasm. 
They  took  Nobby  and  drove  out  into  the  country,  and 
paid  some  flattering  attention  to  a  few  of  the  wealthiest 
farmers.  They  examined  the  river  for  bridging  and  se- 
lected a  site  for  the  depot,  and  discussed  the  whole  subject 
in  all  its  bearings.  It  was  a  kind  of  work  Mr.  Burns  par- 
ticularly delighted  in, — it  was  for  the  public  good.  It  is 
true,  that  in  his  old  aspirations  toward  becoming  a  benefac- 
tor of  the  human  race,  he  had  never  thought  of  railroads. 
But  who  of  us  go  straight  to  our  aim  ?  We  must  allow 
something  for  the  rush  and  pressure  of  circumstances,  as  the 
ocean  currents  allow  for  the  rotation  of  the  earth.  Where 
so  many  and  such  great  forces  are  at  work  outside  of  us, 
we  must  expect  to  swerve  and  bend  a  little. 

Before  Mr.  Griggs  went  away  he  said,  confidentially, 
"  Can't  you  get  Courtenay  to  work  for  us?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  He  is  as  much  inter- 
ested as  we  are,  and  will  get  up  and  shake  his  mane,  by 
and  by,  but  we  must  wait  for  him  a  little." 

Before  spring  was  well  advanced  the  railroad  excitement 
became  intense.  There  were  meetings  in  town-halls  all 
over  the  county,  and  bonfires  in  the  streets,  and  warm 
discussions  upon  every  hand.  The  High-Water-Mark 
attorneys  were  the  most  indefatigable  workers  on  the  line. 
After  speaking  in  all  the  towns  and  villages,  they  began 
canvassing  townships  and  school-districts,  and  even  visited 
farmers  in  their  homes. 

Here  Mr.  Burns  had  a  decided  advantage  over  his 
friend.  Familiarity  with  the  people  was  not  to  Mr. 
Courtenay's  taste, — was  not  in  his  nature.  His  lofty  and 
polished  bearing  was  extremely  out  of  place  in  farm 
kitchens.  Whereas  Mr.  Burns  could  lend  a  helping  hand 
to  lift  a  pail  of  water  or  put  a  stick  of  wood  in  the  stove 
for  any  woman,  young  or  old,  pretty  or  homely,  Mr. 
Courtenay  stood  aloof  and  embarrassed  the  blushing 
farmers'  daughters  with  his  admiring  glances  and  grand 
manners.  Whether  intentional  or  not,  Mr.  Courtenay 
had  a  way  that  inspired  people  with  awe  and  kept  them 

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298 


PIIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


at  a  distance.  He  could  charm  and  carry  away  an  audi- 
ence and  play  upon  their  emotions  as  upon  a  harmonious, 
many-stringed  instrument,  but  he  could  not  come  down 
and  meet  his  fellow-beings  on  the  broad  level  of  friendly, 
social  intercourse.  People  applauded  him,  admired  him 
enthusiastically,  were  proud  of  an  opportunity  to  hear 
him  speak,  and  repeated  over  and  over  again  in  private 
what  he  said  in  public,  especially  his  sharp  sarcasms  and 
witticisms.  But  few  approached  him.  Mr.  Burns,  on 
the  contrary  (except  when  his  mood  was  bitter  or  melan- 
choly), was  affable,  kind,  courteous,  easy  of  access. 
Nobody  could  doubt  his  sincerity  who  looked  into  his 
eyes,  or  whose  hand  he  grasped.  He  made  many  friends. 
Mr.  Courtenay  intimated  to  him  once,  slyly,  that  he  was 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  his  prospects  for  Con- 
gress were  brightening.  But  he  flushed  angrily  and 
denied  any  conscious  effort  in  the  direction  of  bettering 
his  chances. 

But  Mr.  Woodbury  and  other  of  his  friends — and  the 
enemies  of  the  Marchmonts — had  not  been  idle  ;  and  his 
name  was  beginning  to  be  wafted  about  in  political  cir- 
cles. Some  talked  confidently  and  others  pooh-poohed. 
What !  a  stranger,  young,  unknown  ?  But  then  he  was  a 
soldier,  and  had  given  four  years'  arduous  service  to  his 
country  ;  and  that  fact  had  weight  in  those  days.  In 
subsequent  political  gatherings  a  point  was  made  of  this : 
that  whereas  Mr.  Marchmont  had  sat  in  his  office  gathering 
rich  harvests  of  gold,  his  opponent  had  toiled  through  wear- 
isome marches,  through  sickness  and  battle  and  danger. 

Mr.  Courtenay  was  induced  to  make  one  grand,  rallying 
speech  for  his  friend  at  Hammond  Springs.  After  touch- 
ing upon  the  war,  and  his  candidate's  faithful  service,  he 
said :  "  But,  gentlemen,  it  is  not  because  Charles  Burns  was 
a  soldier,  brave  and  generous  to  the  laying  of  his  life  upon 
his  country's  altar,  that  I  solicit  your  votes  in  his  behalf. 
These  are  not  the  necessary  qualifications  for  the  office  to 
which  he  aspires.  The  arduous  toils  and  dangers  of  war, 
the  rude  camp-life  would  hardly  fit  a  man  for  a  seat  among 
the  polished  legislators  of  the  nation ;  but,  gentlemen, 
when  Mr.  Burns  laid  down  his  books  and  took  up  the  sword 
the  great  university  of  M could  not  boast  a  more 


HIGH-  IVA  TER-MARK. 


299 


accomplished  scholar.  The  war  has  been  three  years 
ended.  Mr.  Burns  came  back  wounded,  '  tired'  (as  we 
used  to  sing)  'of  the  war  on  the  old  camp-ground,'  and 
gave  himself,  with  renewed  zeal,  to  his  books,  to  his  pro- 
fession, and  to  a  careful  study  of  the  times  ;  and  to-day," 
Mr.  Courtenay  took  a  step  down  toward  his  audience 
and  put  his  whole  soul  into  the  conclusion  of  his  sentence, 
making  an  indescribable  gesture  toward  his  friend,  thrilling 
all  hearts  and  turning  all  eyes  in  one  direction,  "  I  would 
match  this  soldier  against  any  gentleman  who  has  never 
been  deprived  of  his  books  and  his  easy-chair,  or  had  his 
mind  distracted  with  thoughts  of  his  bleeding  country 
for  a  single  night,  in  knowledge  of  law,  statesmanship, 
and  acquaintance  with  all  that  pertains  to  government 
and  the  affairs  of  nations." 

When  the  general  convention  met  at  N City,  fate — 

or  the  chances  of  politics — decided  in  Mr.  Burns's  favor, 
and  he  became  the  regular  candidate  of  his  party,  much 
to  his  surprise.  He  could  hardly  believe  it  possible  that 
he  was  really  on  the  road  to  Congress,  with  a  strong  prob- 
ability of  reaching  that  goal.  Things  began  to  take  on 
a  rosy  hue  again  ;  a  little  while  ago  the  whole  world  had 
seemed  faded,  and  he  not  thirty  yet.  Perhaps  he  had 
hardly  tasted  life  ;  perhaps  the  richest  and  best  experience 
of  living  was  yet  to  come.  All  that  he  had  gone  through 
seemed  a  long  way  off.  Of  course  that  was  the  spring, 
the  seed-time  ;  and  in  these  last,  discontented,  apparently 
idle  years,  it  might  be  that  the  seeds  were  swelling,  sprout- 
ing, taking  root.  And  now  the  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang, 
and  the  green  leaves  would  begin  to  shoot  up. 

For  the  space  of  a  week  the  opposing  wing  of  the  party 
made  no  sign,  and  it  was  thought  that  all  feeling  had  died 
away  ;  but,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  Mr.  Marchmont  came 
out,  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets,  as  the  people's  candidate, 
and  the  struggle  must  all  be  repeated  on  a  larger  scale. 

Mr.  Burns  had  an  instantaneous  presentiment,  when 
the  news  reached  him,  that  it  was  all  over  with  him.  He 
said  as  much  to  Mr.  Courtenay,  who  laughed  at  the  idea 
and  felt  his  own  combativeness  rising  on  behalf  of  his 
friend. 

"I  have  a  feeling,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "that  all  these 


300 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


things  have  transpired  once  before,  sometime  in  the  dim, 
past  ages,  and  that  they  ended  in  defeat." 

"You  are  too  visionary,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay  ;  and 
aroused  himself  and  went  up  to  Hammond  Springs  and 
made  the  afore-mentioned  speech. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

SUMMER  came  on  apace,  reached  its  climax  of  heat, 
dust,  listlessness,  and  prostration,  and  began  to  wane. 
One  day  a  party  of  individuals — ladies  and  gentlemen — 
alighted  from  a  covered  conveyance  in  front  of  the  hotel. 
One  of  the  gentlemen,  throwing  the  lines  to  Fred,  held  a 
short  consultation  with  the  landlord,  who  had  come  out 
on  the  steps ;  the  result  of  which  was  that  they  all  pro- 
ceeded into  the  house  and  up-stairs  to  the  parlor. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five, — how  many  are  there, 
and  who  can  they  be?"  said  Mr.  Burns.  He  and  Mr. 
Courtenay  were  just  going  down  to  supper.  Two  of  the 
gentlemen,  of  middle  age  nearly,  had  the  air  of  school- 
masters, and  several  of  the  ladies  had  a  corresponding  air. 
There  were  two,  however,  that  were  probably  school-girls; 
young,  pretty,  and  deep  in  flirtation  with  two  daintily- 
moustached  young  gentlemen,  who  waited  upon  them  with 
scrupulous  gallantry.  Besides  all  these  there  were  still 
two  other  ladies,  who,  by  some  indistinguishable  line, 
seemed  to  be  divided  from  the  others,  and,  you  would 
say,  did  not  belong  to  the  party.  Not  very  young,  one 
was  perhaps  twenty-five,  though  slender  and  girlish-look- 
ing, and  the  other  ten  or  a  dozen  years  older.  There 
was  something  in  their  dress  and  carriage  that  was  not 
exactly  western, — they  were  easy,  graceful,  evidently  cul- 
tivated. This  much  the  attorneys,  coming  in  after  them 
and  passing  on  into  the  office,  took  note  of  though  they 
did  not  see  their  faces.  The  landlord  bustled  out  into 
the  kitchen  to  give  orders  about  the  supper  and  then 
came  back. 

"Who  air  they,   an"  where  air   they  from?"  asked  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


301 


dry-goods'  clerk,  who  was  vigorously  brushing  his  hair 
that  he  had  previously  made  soaking  wet  at  the  wash- 
stand. 

"  A  party  o'  pleasure-seekers  from  N City;  mostly 

school-ma'ams,  I  take  it,"  said  the  landlord.  "  Except  two 
that  they  picked  up  on  the  way.  The  stage  broke  down 
between  here  and  Winchester,  and  the  two  lady  passengers 
got  in  with  these  folks  and  came  on." 

"Pleasure-seekers,  and  come  here  !"  laughed  the  clerk. 

"An1  why  not?"  demanded  the  landlord,  who  thought 
it  politic  to  uphold  the  reputation  of  the  village  as  a  pleas- 
ure-resort. "  There  ain't  another  town  within  a  hundred 
miles  that's  as  neatly  set  down  in  the  bend  of  a  river  as 
this  town  is ;  and  as  for  the  river  itself,  there's  no  purtier 
stream  on  the  globe.  What  with  the  falls,  which  is  what 
people  comes  mostly  to  see  ;  and  what  with  the  water,  as 
clear  as  crystal,  showing  every  pebble  in  the  river-bed, 
I'd  like  to  know  where  you'd  find  a  more  temptin'  spot ; 
and  then  at  this  season  the  maples  look  jest  like  so  many 
gorgeous  foliage  plants." 

"  Well,  it  does  seem  nice,  looking  at  it  that  way,"  ad- 
mitted the  clerk  ;  "  like  a  picture,  as  one  may  say;  but 
livin'  right  here  we  don't  think  much  about  them  things. 
I  expect  it's  about  the  same  with  the  folks  at  Niagara 
Falls." 

The  last  supper-bell  rang,  and  they  all  went  in  and 
seated  themselves  in  their  accustomed  places.  The  party 
of  pleasure-seekers  filed  in  through  the  hall-door  and 
ranged  themselves  around  the  lower  end  of  the  long  table 
which  was  always  reserved  for  the  travelling  public.  All 
excepting  the  girlish-looking  lady,  whose  non-appearance 
was  about  the  only  thing  the  attorneys  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  table  made  a  note  of.  Her  companion,  though 
middle-aged,  was  an  exceedingly  comely  and  interesting 
woman.  She  might  not  have  been  even  pretty  in  her 
youth,  having  the  palest  of  yellow  hair,  with  eyes  and 
complexion  to  match.  But  she  was  plump  and  fair,  and 
her  cheeks  were  still  rounded,  and  her  face  was  educated 
and  refined  into  a  beauty  of  expression  very  agreeable  to 
see.  She  was  full  of  a  quiet  strength  and  energy  that 
compelled  great  faith  in  her  capability.  She  was  one 

26 


302 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


whose  presence  in  time  of  danger  would  inspire  courage, 
and  on  whose  judgment  upon  a  wide  range  of  subjects 
one  might  safely  rely.  You  would  hardly  limit  her;  you 
would  expect  her  to  be  almost  infinite  in  resources. 
When  she  had  finished  her  supper,  she  said  to  the  girl 
who  waited  upon  her,  "You  may  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
if  you  please,  to  carry  up-stairs  to  Miss  Stuvysant." 

"Is  your  friend  no  better,  madam?"  asked  one  of  the 
professors. 

"No;  her  head  aches  badly.     She  is  not  very  strong." 

"She  doesn't  look  strong,"  said  one  of  the  lady  pro- 
fessors, sympathetically. 

"Stuvysant,  Stuvysant!  where  have  I  heard  that  name 
before?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  as  they  stepped  off  the  hotel 
porch  and  went  back  to  the  office. 

"I  think  you  have  seen  it  in  the  newspapers,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay.  "There  is  a  lady  reader  of  that  name." 

"Do  you  suppose  this  is  the  same?"  Mr.  Burns  asked. 

"It  may  be.  Nothing  more  likely  than  that  she  should 
be  travelling  across  country  in  a  stage,  seeing  we  are  lim- 
ited in  the  matter  of  railroads." 

"Which  we  shall  not  be  long,  thank  heaven!"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  and  they  forthwith  drifted  away  on  that  en- 
gaging topic. 

Work  had  already  begun  all  along  the  line,  and  before 
another  year  the  cars  would  be  steaming  through  High- 
Water-Mark. 

When  Miss  Stuvysant's  friend  carried  her  cup  of  tea 
up-stairs,  she  found  her  lying  across  the  bed  in  the  little 
chamber  that  had  been  assigned  them.  She  sat  up  directly 
and  asked,  "  Why,  is  your  supper  over  already,  Miss  Cleve- 
land ?"  lifting  up  a  face  that  must  be  striking  to  any 
beholder;  not  for  any  distinctive  feature, — though  the 
features  were  all  fine :  large  brown  eyes,  soft  hair,  a 
smooth,  dusky  skin,  a  delicate  finish, — but  for  a  deep 
meaning  underlying  it, — a  strong,  beautiful  soul  shining 
through  it.  It  seemed  feverish  just  now,  there  being  an 
unnatural,  unusual  glow  in  eye  and  cheek. 

Miss  Cleveland  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
carefully  concealed  the  anxiety  she  began  to  feel  as  she 
scrutinized  the  flushed  face. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


3°3 


"  Yes,  1  have  finished  my  supper,"  she  said,  "  and  have 
brought  you  some  tea.  Is  your  head  better?" 

"My  head?  Oh,  yes,  my  head  is  better.  It  doesn't 
ache  at  all  now.  But  say,  listen  !  can  you  hear  my  heart 
beat  ?  It  throbs  so  that  it  moves  my  whole  body.  See  ! 
I  can't  hold  my  hand  still." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  "  what  is  the  matter?" 

Miss  Stuvysant  laughed,  and  got  up  and  walked  about 
rapidly. 

"The  matter?  Why,  I  have  heard  some  news  !  and  it 
seems  as  if  my  heart  will  leap  right  out  of  my  mouth. 
Did  you  ever  have  that  sensation?" 

She  stopped  and  held  her  two  hands  clasped  over  her 
heart ;  her  face  was  inexpressibly  radiant.  She  unclasped 
her  hands  and  put  one  finger  upon  her  wrist. 

"I  never  thought,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  my  pulse 
would  beat  like  that  again  !" 

She  seated  herself  beside  Miss  Cleveland,  and  twined 
her  arms  around  her. 

"Did  you  ever  think  there  was  a  secret  about  me? 
Well,  all  these  years  that  you  and  I,  my  best  of  cousins, 
have  been  together — am  I  not  an  ungrateful  creature  ? — 
I  have  had  a  secret.  Yet  not  so  much  a  secret,  after  all, 
as  a  motive ;  a  deep-seated,  unswerving  motive.  Would 
you  think  it?" 

"I  should  think,  my  darling,"  said  Miss  Cleveland, 
with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  admiration,  "  that  you 
had  all  your  life  been  actuated  by  something  grand  and 
noble  and  true  to  make  you  what  you  are  !" 

"Do  you  indeed  think  so?"  said  Miss  Stuvysant,  tears 
shining  on  her  eyelashes  and  in  her  eyes  as  she  lifted  them 
up.  "  My  egotism  and  my  great  reliance  upon  you  make 
me  think  that  you  do.  Is  it  not  sweet  to  accomplish  in  a 
little  measure  what  you  have  earnestly  striven  to  do  ?  Well, 
I  have  been  actuated  by  something  grand  and  noble  and 
true, — by  a  life,  by  a  beautiful  life.  I  have  tried  to  make 
mine  what  that  was,  and  what  it  would  come  to  be,  if  it 
continued  on  this  earth,  in  the  distant  time  when  both  it 
and  mine  should  ripen,  with  silver  hairs,  for  eternity. 
Oh,  my  friend,  I  have  lived  with  one  strong  purpose  and 
effort  to  make  my  life  run  parallel  with  that  life !" 


304  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

11  You  said  you  had  heard  some  news,"  said  Miss  Cleve- 
land, who  had  a  misgiving  that  her  friend's  mind  was 
wandering. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Stuvysant,  without  any  explanation. 
"  But  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  cause  to  feel  happier 
for  it ;  yet  I  do  feel  happier.  Say !  would  you  dare  to 
let  yourself  enjoy  a  blissful  dream  when  you  knew  it  was 
but  a  dream?" 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  "  that  we  all  please 
ourselves  with  dreams  more  or  less." 

Miss  Stuvysant  got  off  the  bed  and  went  over  to  the 
window  looking  down  into  the  street.  Miss  Cleveland 
came  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Some  people  assert  this,"  she  said, — "that  our  joys 
and  our  griefs  are  equal." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cleveland;  "  if  a  pendulum  swings 
back,  it  must  swing  forward  again  just  as  far.  I  suppose 
it  is  so  with  us." 

"If  we  are  evenly  balanced,"  said  Miss  Stuvysant, 
looking  up;  "not  otherwise,  I  think.  Some  of  us  are 
so  unhappily  constituted  that  if  we  swing  back-  we  can 
never  get  forward  again.  But  there  is,"  she  added, 
thoughtfully,  "a  grand  principle  in  that  pendulum  move- 
ment. Not  many  of  us  would  shrink  from  going  down 
into  the  depths  if  we  could  rise  correspondingly  on  the 
heights." 

Just  then  Mr.  Burns  and  Mr.  Courtenay  stepped  out  of 
the  hall-door  directly  under  the  window,  which  was  open, 
and  Mr.  Burns  made  the  remark  recorded  above.  Miss 
Stuvysant  listened  with  an  extraordinary  brightness  of 
cheek  and  eye,  and  exclaimed,  "I  wonder  how  they  got 
hold  of  my  name?" 

"  They  probably  heard  me  mention  it  at  table,"  said 
Miss  Cleveland;  "I  told  the  girl  to  give  me  some  tea  to 
bring  up  to  you.  I  hope,"  she  added  uneasily,  "  that 
the  stage  will  be  along  to-morrow ;  we  have  not  got  very 
comfortable  quarters  here." 

"  But  do  you  know,"  said  Miss  Stuvysant,  seating  her- 
self by  the  window,  and  folding  her  hands  on  the  casement, 
"I  have  a  fancy  that  I  would  like  to  stop  here  a  little 
while !  I  might  recover  my  truant  health  here,  perhaps, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


3°5 


as  well  as  in  Denver  City.  Look  yonder  !  across  the  val- 
ley ;  and  away  over  the  prairie  to  the  north ,  and  at  that 
long  line  of  woods  circling  away.  Is  it  not  beautiful? 
And  then,"  narrowing  her  gaze,  "the  village  itself  is 
pretty.  There  are  a  good  many  neat  little  cottages,  and 
there  is  the  school-house  !  I  never  see  a  school-house 
without  a  thrill  of  interest.  There  must  be  even  more  at- 
tractions in  the  place  than  we  can  see  from  this  window," 
she  added,  laughing,  "  to  induce  that  party  of  excursion- 
ists to  spend  their  holiday  here.  They  told  me  there  was 
a  remarkable  stream  of  water  running  through  that  body 
of  timber." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  Miss  Cleveland.  "These 
Western  streams  are  all  beautiful." 

"And  do  you  object  to  stopping  here  a  few  days?" 
Miss  Stuvysant  asked,  looking  up  wistfully. 

"  My  dear  child  !  how  can  we  possibly  stop  here  longer 
than  is  just  necessary?"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  glancing 
around  the  narrow  room. 

"Oh,  not  here,  of  course!"  said  Miss  Stuvysant. 
"But  maybe  we  could  get  lodging  somewhere  in  the 
village." 

"I  hardly  believe  it.  Still  we  might.  I  could  ask  the 
landlord,  I  suppose." 

"  Do,  pray  !"  said  Miss  Stuvysant. 

Miss  Cleveland  arose  at  once,  and  went  down-stairs. 

The  landlord,  upon  being  consulted,  said,  "  I  know 
of  only  one  place  where  I  think  it  likely  you  could  git 
board,  an'  that's  at  Deacon  Clyde's.  They  take  boarders 
up  there  sometimes,  if  they  are  the  right  sort ;  the  dea- 
con's folks  are  a  little  stuck  up." 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  see  them  for  me  ?"  asked 
Miss  Cleveland. 

"Yes;  I  can  do  that.  Did  you  want  to  go  right 
away?" 

"  We  would  like  to  go  right  away,  if  possible." 

She  went  back  up-stairs,  and  the  obliging  landlord 
posted  off  to  the  deacon's,  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
possibility — or  impossibility,  almost — of  entertaining  so 
many  guests  in  case  the  deacon  could  not  take  these  two 
off  his  hands.  After  a  little  family  consultation,  in  which 

26* 


306  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

both  Evelyn  and  Maggie  joined,  it  was  decided  that  the 
ladies  should  come. 

"It  will  be  nice  for  a  change,  Evy,"  Maggie  said. 
"  We  can  give  them  the  front  chamber  up-stairs ;  and  of 
course  they  will  keep  to  themselves  a  good  deal.  And, 
besides,"  she  added,  aside,  "  he  says  they  are  real  ladies, 
and  I  suppose  they  will  be  very  pleasant  company." 

Evelyn  did  not  particularly  favor  the  plan,  but  gave  up, 
as  she  always  did  when  there  was  not  much  at  stake,  to 
Maggie. 

"I'll  have  Fred  bring  'em  up  right  away,"  said  the 
landlord.  "  We're  purty  full  at  our  house.  The  stage  '11 
be  along  some  time  to-night,  I  suppose,  and  fetch  their 
trunks." 

So  it  was  settled ;  and  in  less  than  an  hour  the  two 
ladies,  tired  and  travel-worn,  were  taking  off  their  wrap- 
pings in  the  pretty  front  chamber  at  the  deacon's.  The 
windows,  facing  the  west,  commanded  a  view  of  the  river 
some  rods  distant, — or  of  the  strip  of  timber  through 
which  it  ran, — and  a  long  line  of  low,  wooded  hills, 
stretching  away,  beautiful  in  autumn-tints. 

"  Isn't  this  restful?"  said  Miss  Stuvysant,  dropping  into 
a  low  rocking-chair  in  front  of  a  small  wood-stove  with 
isinglass  windows  through  which  the  fire-light  shone  out 
cheerful  and  red.  And  then  added,  laughingly,  "  I  half 
believe  in  special  providences." 

Miss  Cleveland,  folding  up  her  shawl  and  putting  it 
away,  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Special  providences,  my  dear,  come  to  those  who  are 
looking  for  them.  One  might  wander  along  the  sea-beach 
all  day  without  finding  a  single  pretty  shell,  unless  he  had 
eyes  for  shells." 

The  following  morning  was  perfect  as  an  Indian  summer 
morning ;  quiet  and  still,  with  a  mellow,  dreamy,  hazy 
atmosphere,  and  the  sun  shining  through  with  agreeable 
warmth  and  veiled  brightness.  Mr.  Burns  stood  in  the 
office  door,  and  felt  like  a  fledgling  anxious  to  quit  its 
nest.  The  world  seemed  so  broad  and  inviting  outside; 
the  day  was  so  beautiful,  the  weather  so  fine,  and  the  aii 
so  soft ;  while  everything  was  particularly  dull,  dusty,  and 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


307 


stupid  inside.  It  was  too  warm  for  a  fire,  and  the  stove, 
unblacked  and  rusty,  with  a  whitish,  burnt-out  look,  and 
the  dead  ashes  in  the  grate,  was  a  saddening  spectacle. 

"Burr,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "we  haven't  been  to  the 
river  for  a  month  ;  suppose  we  take  a  stroll  down  that  way 
this  morning." 

Mr.  Courtenay  replied  with  a  smile  that  showed  itself 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  "I  am  a  little  suspicious  of 
your  motives ;  that  party  of  school-ma'ams  intend  to 
spend  the  day  in  the  woods  and  along  the  river,  do  they 
not  ? — gathering  pebbles  and  snail-shells.  I  think  I 
heard  some  such  plan  discussed  among  them  yesterday 
evening." 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with  unnecessary 
emphasis,  "I  did  not  think  of  them.  However,  there  is 
a  mile  or  two  of  river  circling  around  the  village ;  we 
could  probably  keep  out  of  their  way." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "and  I  don't  know 
that  I  object,  even,  to  stumbling  in  their  way;  we  would 
doubtless  be  counted  in  with  the  natural  features  of  the 
landscape." 

"  Or  classed  among  the  animals  indigenous  to  the  cli- 
mate," laughed  Mr.  Burns.  "  Though  most  other  animals 
seek  cover  at  the  approach  of  strangers." 

The  wind  was  a  little  chilly,  for  all  that  the  sun  shone, 
as  they  started  off;  having  come  up  in  the  last  ten  minutes, 
as  prairie  winds  will  do.  Down  in  the  woods  it  was  much 
warmer ;  more  hazy  and  more  dreamy.  One  might  easily 
look  at  the  sun  by  half  shutting  his  eyes  and  glimmering 
at  it  through  his  eyelashes.  Dead  leaves  lay  thickly  on 
the  ground  unstirred  by  the  wind.  Dry  twigs  snapped 
under  foot  and  birds  twittered  here  and  there.  Rabbits 
darted  into  thickets,  and  squirrels  skipped  about  upon 
limbs  high  over  head,  or  disappeared  mysteriously  in  holes 
and  hollow  trunks  of  trees.  It  was  as  if  nature  had 
dropped  into  her  easy-chair  and  was  taking  a  nap  before 
bringing  out  her  war-forces  for  the  winter  campaign. 

The  two  attorneys  sauntered  along  down  the  white, 
sandy  road  and  took  a  seat  upon  a  log  in  a  sheltered,  cozy 
spot  on  the  river  bank.  Mr.  Courtenay  lighted  a  cigar, 


308  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

and  Mr.  Burns  inhaled  its  fragrance  with  a  sense  of  en- 
joyment. The  river  rolled  industriously  along  at  their 
feet  with  a  pretty,  gurgling  sound  ;  and  innumerable  small 
fishes  basking  in  the  sun  wriggled  their  small  bodies  in 
the  shallow  water  that  lapped  the  white  sand  at  its  edge. 
After  a  short,  dreamy  time,  in  which  present  surroundings 
drifted  away  like  a  ship  at  sea,  they  heard  voices  ap- 
proaching. 

"  That  party  of  school-ma'ams,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  with 
a  rueful  glance  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"Only  two  of  them,  though,"  he  added,  "and  by  the 
way  they  are  the  two  who  are  not  school-ma'ams, — Miss 
Stuvysant  and  her  chaperon.  I  take  it  she  is  her  cha- 
peron." 

Miss  Stuvysant  had  an  open  book  in  her  hand  ;  as  they 
came  slowly  on  she  closed  it,  dropped  a  fine  tissue  veil 
over  her  face,  and  they  turned  and  walked  down  the  river 
bank. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  that  woman's  face,"  said  Mr. 
Burns,  his  eyes  following  them.  "  She  diffuses  a  mag- 
netic influence  through  the  atmosphere  that  touches  me 
even  here." 

"You  are  very  susceptible,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Yonder,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burns,  looking  back  again, 
"  come  the  excursionists  !  Shall  we  move  on,  or  sit  here, 
'so  still  among  the  solitudes  that  the  shy  creatures  of  the 
woods  will  think  us  stumps?'  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  as  well,  seeing  they  are  right  upon 
us,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "to  sit  still.  It  would  be  un- 
dignified to  run  away." 

"Oh,  yonder's  a  boat,  yonder's  a  boat!"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  young  ladies  whom  they  called  "  Kitty." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that  it's  chained  ?"  called  the  other 
one  after  her,  for  she  had  skipped  away  like  a  frolicsome 
young  animal  and  was  half-way  down  the  bank. 

"  I  believe  I  have  a  key  that  fits  that  lock,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay,  drawing  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket. 
"  It  is  Fred's  boat;  we  used  it  one  Sunday  evening,  if  you 
remember." 

"  Better  take  the  responsibility  of  loaning  it  an  hour  or 
two,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "It  places  a  young  fellow  in  an 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


3°9 


awkward  position  not  to  be  able  to  gratify  a  lady's  wishes 
under  such  circumstances." 

The  "  young  fellows"  had  both  come  up  and  stood 
contemplating  the  chained  creature  as  it  rocked  to  and 
fro  in  the  shallow  water,  with  an  air  of  idle  powerlessness, 
hands  in  their  trowsers  pockets. 

"  If  we  knew  who  owned  it,"  said  one  of  them,  giving 
it  a  little  kick  with  the  toe  of  his  patent-leather  boot. 

Mr.  Courtenay  got  up  and  stepped  leisurely  forward. 

"  Here  is  a  key,  gentlemen,  that  I  think  will  answer; 
the  boat  belongs  to  one  of  the  men  up  at  the  hotel.  I 
don't  suppose  there  would  be  any  objection  to  your  using 
it." 

The  young  men  thanked  him  and  proceeded  to  unfasten 
the  boat.  The  young  ladies  looked  up  shy  and  blushing. 
Mr.  Burns  arose  and.  joined  his  friend,  and  they  strolled 
away  down  the  river.  With  a  good  many  little  screams 
and  ejaculations  the  young  ladies  were  helped  into  the 
tiny  vessel,  and  the  young  men  shoved  it  off  and  sprang 
in  after  them.  As  for  the  professors  and  lady  teachers, 
who  were  evidently  the  pebble  and  snail-shell  division  of 
the  party,  they  proceeded  farther  up  the  bank  and  went 
stooping  about  collecting  geological  specimens. 

"  Now  wouldn't  I  thmile,"  said  one  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen, who  lisped,  "  if  we'd  upthet?" 

"  Oh,  my  goodness  !  what  should  we  do?"  exclaimed 
the  girls. 

"Really  and  truly,  Herbert,  what  would  you  do?" 
asked  Kitty,  looking  up  engagingly  into  the  face  of  the 
gentleman  who  lisped. 

"  I?"  said  he,  smiling  down  at  her.  "I  think  I  should 
thwim  out  and  call  for  help." 

"Oh,  you  ungallant  creature,"  said  Kitty,  and  turned 
away  with  a  pout. 

Meantime  the  two  ladies  who  were  not  school-ma'ams 
walked  down  to  the  falls  and  stood  watching  the  water 
splash  and  toss  for  a  while,  and  then  disappeared  in  the 
woods.  Discovering  which,  Mr.  Burns  lost  interest  in  the 
day,  the  river,  the  stroll,  and  the  pleasure-seekers,  and 
proposed  going  back  home.  Towards  evening  the  two 
ladies  walked  down  to  the  hotel,  past  the  law-office,  to 


3io 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


see  about  their  trunks,  which  had  not  been  sent  up  yet. 
Mr.  Burns  standing  idly  in  the  doorway  stepped  back  as 
they  came  up,  and  Mr.  Courtenay  glancing  from  the  win- 
dow said,  "  Ah,  the  gray  lady  again  !" 

"  What  a  finely-poised  figure  she  has  !"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
"Did  you  observe  it?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  said  yes,  he  had  observed  it. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  she  is  the  reader  whose  name  we  have 
seen  in  the  papers.  Her  whole  person,  her  attitudes 
and  movements,  are  full  of  language  and  expression.  I 
have  a  strange  sort  of  fancy  that  she  has  felt  the  same 
things  that  I  have  felt  myself.  It  seems  to  me  that  there 
hangs  about  her  the  atmosphere  of  a  Byron,  a  Tennyson, 
a  Hawthorne,  a  Goethe.  The  rhythm  of  her  motion  is 
as  familiar  to  me  as  an  old  melody." 

"  You  are  disposed  to  be  sentimental,"  said  Mr.  Court- 
enay. "  Hadn't  you  better  write  a  little  more  poetry?" 

"But  why,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "cannot  one  get  an 
'air'  from  the  people  he  lives  with  and  who  attune  and 
educate  his  soul  even  though  they  might  be  dead  ages 
ago?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  said  the  subject  was  one  he  had  not  con- 
sidered ;  and  that  in  any  case  it  lay  too  deep  in  meta- 
physics for  his  practical  mind  to  fathom. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  deacon's  early  tea,  the  visitors 
were  invited  into  the  parlor.  Subsequently,  when  the 
lamps  were  lighted,  Miss  Cleveland  excused  herself  and 
went  up-stairs  to  write  a  letter  to  a  long-neglected  friend. 
After  detailing  the  events  of  the  journey  westward,  which, 
as  has  appeared,  had  been  undertaken  for  the  benefit  of 
her  friend's  health,  she  said:  "And  now  we  are  settled 
down  here  in  this  little  village  of  High-Water-Mark  for 
— I  cannot  say  how  long. 

"As  you  know,  it  matters  little  to  me ;  I  am  an  individ- 
ualized atom,  not  adhering  to  any  particular  spot.  I  have 
my  late  magazines,  leaves  still  uncut,  a  few  choice  books, 
some  needlework,  my  pen,  and — Miss  Stuvysant.  If  I 
had  not  the  latter,  my  conscience  would  prick  me  sorely, 
sometimes,  with  the  hint  that  I  am  leading  a  very  idle 
existence.  But  I  am  comforted  with  the  reflection  that  I 
am  needful  to  her.  I  am  not  one  of  those  over-righteous 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  3  x  i 

souls  who  are  afraid  to  accept  ease  and  rest  when  they 
come  right  in  the  way.  If  my  Good  Shepherd  leads  me 
through  green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters,  I  am  con- 
tent to  follow." 

(I  am  bound  to  say  explanatorily  of  Miss  Cleveland 
that  when  her  path  lay  through  stony  places,  through 
bitter  trial  and  humiliation, — as  it  had  done  some  ten  or 
fifteen  years  before, — she  did  not  shrink,  but  went  bravely 
on  and  came  out  one  of  those  glorified  victors  which  we 
see,  here  and  there,  with  invisible  crowns  on  their  brows.) 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  went  on,  "so  much  about  my 
dear  Miss  Stuvysant,  and  yet  I  am  convinced  you  can 
never  have  a  true  conception  of  her  until  you  have  seen 
her  for  yourself.  She  is  something  more  than  a  genius. 
She  has  the  broadest  mental  and  moral  capacity  of  any 
one  I  ever  met,  and  she  is  perfectly  balanced. 

"  People  are  apt  to  be  one-sided,  you  know;  to  grow 
only  one  way.  Genius  almost  always  shoots  out  in  a  cer- 
tain direction  like  the  tail  of  a  comet.  But  Miss  Stuvy- 
sant radiates  on  all  sides.  She  is  the  finest  interpreter  of 
the  deep  and  beautiful  meanings  of  other  minds,  as  shown 
in  their  works,  that  I  have  ever  known. 

"  She  might  do  something  grand,  herself.  I  tell  her  she 
might  be  a  great  writer,  but  she  says  the  world  has  not 
digested  the  half  that  is  written  now  ;  that  there  are  beau- 
tiful things  in  books  that  lie  unnoticed,  year  after  year,  like 
a  pile  of  goods  upon  a  counter  waiting  to  be  shown.  And 
she  has  the  rarest  tact  and  ability  to  show  them.  Did  you 
ever  think  how  useless  and  meaningless  words  are  until  a 
living  soul  is  breathed  into  them  ?  Mere  empty  wine- 
glasses. All  that  the  mighty  dead  have  given  us  are  their 
thought-moulds  ;  and  if  we  have  understanding  and  in- 
spiration to  fill  them  we  may  live  as  greatly  as  they." 

Miss  Cleveland  was  going  on  thus  enthusiastically, 
warming  with  her  theme,  when  the  subject  of  it  came 
quietly  in  and  got  her  cloak  and  hat  and  passed  out  again. 
She  looked  up,  a  little  surprised,  but  asked  no  questions, 
— she  seldom  put  so  much  constraint  upon  her  friend  as 
to  inquire  into  her  actions  and  intentions, — and  resumed 
her  writing. 

Miss  Stuvysant  wrapped  her  cloak  around  her  outside 


312 


HIGH  WATER-MARK. 


in  the  hall,  and  then  went  softly  down-stairs  and  out  of 
the  house.  Miss  Clyde  was  playing  as  she  passed  the 
parlor-door.  There  was  no  moon,  and,  being  a  little 
cloudy,  it  was  rather  dark.  She  passed  swiftly  out  the 
gate  and  down  toward  the  village,  the  force  of  a  strong 
determination  speeding  her  on.  Not  a  soul  was  upon 
the  streets  ;  it  was,  indeed,  a  very  quiet  little  village,  and 
all  the  stores  and  public  places  were  already  shut  up, 
and  half  the  people  asleep  in  their  beds.  She  crossed 
over,  near  the  hotel,  and  came  up  on  that  side.  A  bright 
light  shone  out  through  the  one  window  of  the  law-office. 
She  stopped  when  she  came  near  it,  scarcely  breathing, 
her  small  hands  clasped  tightly,  and  her  heart  thumping 
loudly  in  her  bosom.  Only  one  person  was  visible  through 
the  window, — Mr.  Burns  seated  in  an  office-chair  talking 
to  his  friend  opposite.  His  hair  was  tossed  back,  and  he 
was  smiling  and  a  little  flushed,  as  though  he  were  tri- 
umphing in  a  debate,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  his 
boyhood's  beauty  and  grace  upon  him  for  the  moment. 
Miss  Stuvysant  gazed  with  her  intense  soul  in  her  eyes, 
and  wrung  her  hands  silently. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  out  in  her  heart,  at  last,  "  is  it,  is  it 
possible,  after  all  these  dividing  years  and  circumstances, 
that  our  two  lives  have  come  so  close  together  again  ?  So 
close  that  a  few  steps  would  bring  us  face  to  face  !  Oh,  I 
knew  it  would  come  some  time,  at  some  ripe  moment.  I 
knew  that  I  must  see  you  once  more,  my  Charley,  else 
there  is  no  labor  and  rest,  no  trial  and  compensation,  no 
cross  and  crown ;  no  even  balance  of  anything  in  this 
world." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  in  the  darkness,  her  heart 
yearning,  and  her  eyes  raining  tears  down  her  cheeks. 

"  My  darling,  my  noble  Charley,  whose  pure  and  grand 
ambition  pointed  out  the  way  of  life  to  me,  and  led  me 
always  as  by  an  invisible  hand,  I  have  seen  your  face  once 
more,  and  I  thank  God  !" 

Her  head  dropped  forward  upon  her  bosom,  and  for  a 
single  moment  she  knelt  down  upon  the  pavement,  alone 
in  the  darkness,  then  sprang  up  and  sped  swiftly  home- 
ward. Miss  Clyde  was  still  playing,  and  at  the  window 
above  still  sat  Miss  Cleveland,  bending  her  calm  face 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


313 


over  her  writing-desk.  Miss  Stuvysant  felt  that  she  could 
not  go  in  the  house  just  yet.  She  sat  down  upon  the 
door-step. 

"My  Charley,  my  Charley!"  she  murmured,  with  a 
tender  smile  on  her  lips,  her  eyelashes  still  wet;  "to 
think  what  a  little  space  divides  us  !  And  yet,  and  yet, 
oh  !  why  have  I  forgotten  that  it  is  not  space  alone  that 
divides  us,  that  ever  divided  us  !  If  only  oceans  and 
mountain-chains,  years — ay,  death  itself,  divided  us,  what 
sweetness  there  would  still  be  in  the  separation  !  But  this 
eternal  soul-estrangement,  this  echoless  silence  that  lies 
between  us  !  My  darling,  I  have  tried  to  believe  that  my 
poor  love  for  you  would  widen  into  sympathy  with  the 
Infinite  Love,  and  that  my  great  sorrow  would  unlock  for 
me  all  sorrowing  hearts,  and  teach  me  a  broader  charity 
and  tenderer  affection  for  others  than  I  should  ever  have 
felt  without  it.  Yet  I  did  not  limit  the  infinite  in  wor- 
shipping you.  I  expanded  your  noble  nature  to  infinity." 

She  so  lost  herself  in  revery  that  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore her  thoughts  again  took  shape,  and  when  they  did, 
the  attitude  of  her  mind  had  changed  toward  him  so  that 
she  no  longer  felt  herself  to  be  in  communion  with  him. 
"How  strange,"  she  said,  "that  now  I  am  so  near  to 
him  he  seems  a  thousand  miles  farther  away  than  before  ! 
It  is,  because  seeing  him  I  realize  how  he  has  put  me  away 
out  of  his  consciousness,  out  of  his  life.  It  flows  on  with- 
out me,  unheeding  me.  I  am  dead  to  him  !  How  would 
he  meet  me  ?  But  I  shall  not  meet  him  !  With  all  the 
gathered  fortitude  of  years  I  could  not  now  undergo 
that.  And  yet  it  is  the  thing  I  have  hoped  for  and  prayed 
for,  and  promised  to  myself  as  a  crowning  reward.  But 
I  have  seen  his  face,  and  is  not  that  enough  ?  Yet  how 
little,  O  God  !  have  I,  indeed,  this  night  reached  the 
full  realization  of  this  hope  upon  which  I  have  fed  my 
strength  all  these  long,  long  years !  And  is  there  nothing 
beyond?  I  have  aimed  at  this,  only  this,  and  it  has 
come.  What  now?" 

She  might  have  sat  the  night  through  in  the  cold  and 

darkness,  and  with  the  wind  blowing  drearily  over  her, 

if  Miss  Cleveland,  having  finished   her  letter,   had  not 

come  down  in  some  alarm  to  look  for  her.    She  had  never 

o  27 


3 1 4  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

before  brought  herself  to  face  the  absolute  fact  that  the 
separation  between  herself  and  her  lover  had  been  indeed 
final  and  effectual.  She  saw  it  now  most  clearly. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

ELECTION-DAY  was  at  hand,  and  political  excitement  had 
reached  its  highest  pitch.  Mr.  Burns's  enthusiasm  fired 
his  veins  like  the  old  ambitions  of  his  boyhood.  It  is 
true  that  we  go  all  along  through  life  with  about  the  same 
passions  and  hopes  and  impulses,  except  that  they  have 
different  objects.  On  the  eve  of  election  Mr.  Courtenay 
said,  "You  have  grown  thin,  Charley;  this  excitement 
has  burned  you  out  pretty  fast." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Burns  ;  "  I  can't  help  it.  Whether 
I  win  or  lose,  I  shall  feel  vastly  relieved  when  the  thing  is 
well  over." 

ft  Well,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "seeing  the  climax  is  so 
near  at  hand,  and  you  can  do  nothing  more  to  help  on  your 
cause,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  be  letting  yourself 
down  a  little  so  as  to  be  able  to  meet  a  possible  defeat?" 

"I  can't  let  myself  down,"  returned  Mr.  Burns,  impa- 
tiently, "until  the  whole  business  is  over." 

"  In  that  case,  I  am  afraid  you  will  fall  hard  if  the  worst 
comes." 

"Well,  if  I  fail  this  time  I'll  no  more  of  it.  One  de- 
feat is  all  I  can  stand." 

"  You  show  very  little  pluck,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Courte- 
nay. "  Do  you  recollect  the  fable  about  the  ant  and  the 
grain  of  corn  ?" 

"  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "  don't  bring 
up  any  fables  !  That  wretched  insect  might  have  accu- 
mulated a  fortune,  in  smaller  particles,  if  he  had  not 
stubbornly  persisted  in  trying  to  carry  such  a  stupendous 
load." 

"He  succeeded,  though,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "I 
would  rather  exhaust  my  life  in  one  grand  effort  than 
drib  it  out  in  little  things." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


315 


"And  if  you  fail  in  your  grand  effort?  I  can  picture 
nothing  more  melancholy  than  a  life  devoted  to  the  pur- 
suit of  one  thing, — giving  up  all  else, — and  failing  in  its 
accomplishment." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  regard  it  as  so  melan- 
choly," said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "Lives  are  not  so  few  or 
so  significant  upon  this  earth  that  the  loss  of  one  need 
be  considered  lamentable.  The  loss  of  one  maggot  in  a 
cheese  might  be  felt  by  its  immediate  neighbors  in  the 
way  of  giving  them  a  little  more  room,  but  it  would 
hardly  be  perceptible  to  our  larger  vision." 

"What  wretched  comparisons  you  make,"  said  Mr. 
Burns.  "  You  strip  man  of  all  his  dignity  and  import- 
ance." 

"  Well,  perhaps  the  figure  I  used  was  not  attractive," 
said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "  But  I  have  a  habit  of  speculating 
about  how  the  great  mass  of  human  beings  must  look  to 
some  Higher  Intelligence  whose  scope  of  vision  is  broad 
enough  to  take  in  the  world's  millions.  I  suspect  it  very 
closely  resembles  a  nest  of  wriggling,  struggling,  quarrel- 
some vermin,  trampling  each  other  under  foot  and  rejoic- 
ing in  each  other's  downfall." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  as  a  hint  at  political  con- 
tention?" said  Mr.  Burns. 

"Oh,  by  no  means !  I  meant  it  quite  generally.  It 
holds  true  in  nearly  all  our  relations  with  each  other." 

"But  it  is  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "that  there  is 
hardly  any  sort  of  contest  in  which  there  is  less  praise- 
worthy emulation.  If  my  election  to  Congress  depended 
on  my  making  myself  worthy — more  worthy  than  some- 
body else — of  the  office,  I  would  give  my  heart  and  soul 
to  the  task.  But  nothing  depends  upon  myself  but  skilful 
management  of  outside  forces  and  strategic  movements 
against  the  enemy.  It  is  merely  a  cultivation,  on  a  little 
higher  plane,  of  the  savage  and  cunning  instincts  of  our 
nature.  If  the  high  places  in  the  nation  were  to  be  won 
by  hard  labor  and  study,  by  great  moral  and  intellectual 
manhood,  I  could  push  forward  with  all  the  forces  in  me, 
and  feel  that  I,  at  least,  had  a  worthy  aim." 

"You  go  in  for  Civil  Service  Reform,  I  take  it,"  said 
Mr.  Courtenay. 


3 1 6  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

"  I  go  in  for  something  that  calls  for  the  best  there  is  in 
the  men  who  lead,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "and  for  the  best 
men." 

Mr.  Courtenay  had  taken  up  off  the  desk  two  or  three 
little  county  papers  that  had  lain  there  a  week  unopened, 
and  tore  off  the  wrappers.  Running  his  eye  over  them, 
he  came  upon  this  item  in  the  "  Winchester  Independent," 
and,  with  a  laugh,  read  it  aloud  for  his  friend's  edifica- 
tion:  "  Our  would-be  congressman,  Mr.  Charles  Burns, 
who  waves  his  sword  so  gallantly  and  flaunts  his  lieuten- 
ant's commission  in  our  faces  (the  only  recommendations 
he  shows,  by  the  way),  did,  we  understand,  draw  four 
years'  soldier's  pay  and  loiter  in  the  rear  of  the  army,  in 
the  hands  of  doctors  and  hospital  nurses,  for  that  length 
of  time  ;  a  position,  we  have  no  doubt,  more  in  accordance 
with  the  gentleman's  fastidious  taste  and  delicate  con- 
stitution than  beneficial  to  the  country.  A  sword  is  well 
enough,  but  we  would  prefer  having  it  drawn  in  battle  to 
seeing  it  paraded  on  election-day." 

"The  scoundrel !"  said  Mr.  Burns,  red  and  white  by 
turns  with  anger.  "  It  is  that  brainless  fop  who  blows 
the  horn  for  country  dances,  damn  him  !" 

Mr.  Courtenay  laughed.  "  My  dear  boy,  he  handles 
you  gently  to  what  some  of  your  political  friends  have 
handled  Marchmont.  He  appears  to  accuse  you  of  cow- 
ardice ;  did  not  I,  myself,  bring  pretty  much  the  same 
charge  against  your  opponent?" 

•"  You  did  it  with  more  decency,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"You  mean  I  ground  my  knife  down  to  a  finer  edge. 
It  probably  cut  deeper." 

"What  a  detestable  business  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
"  Run  a  man  for  office,  and  it  is  like  starting  up  a  deer 
and  setting  the  hounds  after  it." 

The  momentous  day  dawned  and  faded  ;  a  busy,  noisy, 
harrowing  day.  When  the  election  returns  came  in — 
slowly,  and  balancing  pretty  evenly  for  a  day  or  two,  now 
this  one  ahead,  and  now  that — they  showed,  at  the  last, 
a  majority  for  Marchmont.  Mr.  Burns  staggered  a  little 
under  the  shock,  and  looked  white  about  the  lips  and 
haggard  about  the  eyes,  but  recovered  and  bore  himself 
like  a  man  who  has  the  true  courage  in  him.  It  was  a 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


317 


little  trying  to  hear  the  condolences  of  his  friends,  and 
he  waived  them  off  as  lightly  as  possible. 

"It  is  all  right,  gentlemen;  we  are  beaten  and  must 
give  up,"  he  said,  smilingly,  shaking  the  hands  that  were 
held  out  in  useless  sympathy,  and  getting  back  into  the 
office  and  shutting  himself  up  with  Burr,  who  was  quite 
cut  up  on  his  account. 

"It  seems  incredible,  Charley,"  he  said.  "Up  to 
this  time  I  thought  your  chances  were  absolutely  sure. 
I  knew  there  was  a  good  deal  of  chicanery  going  on,  but 
I  had  no  idea  they  would  defeat  you." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "I  suppose  all  I  have  to  do 
is  to  settle  down  to  the  old  routine  again." 

The  prospect  seemed  dreary  enough. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

THE  forerunner  of  winter — a  blustering,  disagreeable 
avant  courier — came  in  with  a  dismal  rain  ;  cold,  pene- 
trating, and  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  The  trees  were 
not  yet  stripped  of  their  leaves,  which  hung  dripping  and 
wet.  The  sky  gave  no  hint  of  any  brightness  back  of  its 
heavy,  leaden  canopy  ;  and  the  faith  of  human  nature  is 
not  yet  so  happily  grounded  in  his  beneficent  majesty, 
the  sun,  but  that  it  wavers  a  little  when  he  hides  his  face, 
and  we  childishly  say,  "  Will  it  ever  shine  again  ?"  Mr. 
Burns,  who,  in  these  latter  years,  had  become  very  sus- 
ceptible to  the  moods  of  the  weather,  and  feeling  some- 
how that  the  dreary  days  were  more  typical  of  life  than 
the  pleasant  ones,  got  out  his  guitar  from  under  the  bed 
in  the  back  room  (he  had  learned  to  play  it  a  little  while 
he  was  in  the  army),  put  it  in  as  good  tune  as  he  could 
for  the  dampness,  and  sang  Longfellow's  "Rainy  Day," 
looking  out  into  the  bleak,  deserted  street  with  the  spirit 
of  melancholy  brooding  in  his  blue  eyes. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  serenely  smoking,  looked  up  when  he 
had  finished  and  said,  "  Now  suppose  you  give  us  '  Den 
Lieben,  Langen  Tag;'  those  songs  are  calculated — upon 

27* 


3 1 8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

such  a  day  as  this — to  put  us  in  cheerful  harmony  with 
nature." 

Mr.  Burns,  laughing,  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Burr, 
I  know  it's  damnable."  And  got  up  and  put  the  guitar 
in  its  box  and  shoved  it  under  the  bed  again. 

"  What  are  you  doing?"  Mr.  Courtenay  asked.  "  Don't 
mind  me ;  if  you  feel  like  venting  yourself  in  that  way, 
do  so.  I  haven't  the  least  objection." 

Mr.  Burns  said  he  had  vented  himself  sufficiently  in 
that  way,  and  came  back  to  his  place  at  the  window. 
He  still  stood  looking  out  when  Miss  Cleveland  passed 
by,  wrapped  in  a  waterproof  cloak  and  carrying  an 
umbrella.  He  startled  his  friend  by  an  exclamation,  and 
the  light  of  awakened  interest,  or  attracted  attention, 
broke  athwart  his  melancholy  eyes. 

"  What  is  it?"  Mr.  Courtenay  asked. 

"  Miss  Cleveland  passing  by.  Her  face,  Burr,  is  a 
wonderful  break  in  the  dreary  monotony  of  a  day  like 
this.  Did  you  ever  observe  what  a  cheerful,  hopeful, 
animated  face  it  is?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  indifferently.  He  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  observing  faces  that  were  not  young  and 
pretty. 

"  If  I  thought  I  could  compass  such  an  act  of  gal- 
lantry," said  Mr.  Burns,  "I  would  rush  out  when  she 
goes  back  and  volunteer  to  carry  her  umbrella  for  her. 
But  she  seems  such  a  competent  sort  of  person  that  I  am 
afraid  she  would  think  it  a  superfluous  attention." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay;  "elderly  females,  I  have 
observed,  prefer  to  manage  their  own  umbrellas.  If  it 
was  the  other  one,  now, — Miss  Stuvysant !" 

"  We  never  see  Miss  Stuvysant,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "I 
wonder  if  she  is  hermitizing  herself  at  the  deacon's?  By 
the  way,  Burr,  what  an  age  it  has  been  since  we  called  at 
the  deacon's.  I  had  almost  forgotten  about  those  ladies, 
we  have  been  so  engaged  with  that  confounded  election. 
I  suppose  it  is  really  incumbent  upon  us  to  go  and  present 
ourselves  to  them." 

"The  obligation  doesn't  rest  very  heavily  upon  me," 
said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  upon  me,  either,"  said 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


3*9 


Mr.  Burns,  "  if  I  had  not  so  often  met  those  pleasant 
eyes  of  Miss  Cleveland's.  I  wonder,"  he  continued, 
"what  is  the  secret  of  such  happy,  hopeful,  kindly  eyes? 
What  have  they  looked  on  in  this  dreary  world  ?  What 
have  they  found  to  content  them  ?  I  suppose  we  all  feel 
the  '  strong  necessity  of  living,'  but  I  can  hardly  conceive 
what  happy  combination  of  circumstances  would  make 
people  glad  of  their  life.  For  me,  I  am  nothing  but  an 
hour-glass,  through  which  time  sifts  his  tedious  sands.  It 
certainly  seems  to  me,  sometimes,  that  man  has  been 
made  a  sorry  jest  of." 

"  In  what  way?"  Mr.  Courtenay  asked. 

"In  being  endowed  with  a  capacity  for  things  which 
do  not  exist !  In  being  deceived  a  thousand  times  with 
bubbles  that,  before  they  are  in  his  grasp,  promise  to  sat- 
isfy his  hungering,  but  burst  the  moment  he  touches  them, 
and  float  away,  leaving  him,  each  time,  a  little  sadder,  a 
little  wiser,  and  with  the  void  in  his  soul  constantly  in- 
creasing, and  demanding  something  better,  larger,  higher 
than  the  toys  which  have  proven  worthless.  Thus  we  go 
on,  from  one  thing  to  another, — from  the  plays  of  child- 
hood to  the  grave  pursuits  of  men ;  from  the  primer 
rhymes  to  the  grandest  poems ;  from  the  twittering  of 
birds  and  our  mother's  lullaby  to  the  finest  orchestra, — 
and  it  is  always  the  same ;  belief  and  ecstasy  at  first,  dis- 
satisfaction and  scepticism  at  the  last." 

"You  have  not  fathomed  everything,  yet,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay.  "You  have  not  yet  come  into  the  natural 
and  lawful  inheritance  of  man ;  to  which,  it  seems  to 
me, -with  your  tastes  and  disposition,  you  have  the  clearest 
title.  A  man  like  you  ought  to  marry.  Stretch  out  your 
hand — in  your  imagination — and  surround  yourself  with 
an  ideal  home ;  let  there  be  warmth,  color,  books,  music, 
an  atmosphere  of  perfect  refinement ;  prattling,  blue-eyed 
babes, — pretty  little  copies  of  yourself,  in  whom  you  could 
see  a  continuation  of  yourself  away  down  through  the 
future, — and  a  sweet  woman  with  a  heart  that  loved  you, 
and  do  you  still  think  you  would  contend  that  life  held 
nothing  worth  while?" 

A  smile  crossed  Mr.  Burns's  face,  and  his  inner  vision 
dwelt  half  tenderly,  half  painfully,  upon  the  picture, — a 


320 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


picture  that  his  memory  had  sanctified  as  among  his  ear- 
liest, happiest  dreams. 

"How  do  I  know,"  said  he,  "but  that  even  that  is 
one  of  the  bubbles  that  would  break  on  my  lips  ?  The 
way  of  it  is,  everything  is  dazzling,  and  blinds  our  eyes 
until  we  grasp  it.  Yet  I  do  believe,"  he  added,  "that 
the  gratification  of  the  affections  does  do  more  toward 
reconciling  people  to  existence  than  anything  else." 

"You  must  not,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "take 
yourself  as  a  type  of  the  great  masses  of  humanity.  Look 
at  the  thousands  who  have  a  strong  interest  in  living  and 
working !  Because  you  have  nothing  to  lay  hold  of  do 
not,  therefore,  conclude  that  there  is  nothing  satisfactory 
to  man  in.  this  world,  and  that  consequently  the  world  is 
a  failure." 

"'The  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number,'"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  laughing.  "  Perhaps  that  is  the  best  law  we 
could  make,  and  yet  it  is  imperfect.  The  greatest  good 
to  all  men,  I  would  have  it.  My  sympathies  have  always 
been  with  the  few  who  are  crushed  for  the  sake  of  the 
many.  One  human  being,  you  see,  is  capable  of  all  the 
joy  and  all  the  suffering  in  the  world,  and  if  the  world 
could  make  all  people  happy  but  one  man,  and  he  was 
left  desolate  and  hungry  and  cold,  it  would  be  a  failure." 

"I  think  he  would  be  a  failure,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay, 
"and  rather  than  have  my  feelings  lacerated  with  sym- 
pathy for  him  I  should  vote  for  his  extinction." 

"You  never,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "can  carry  on  an  argu 
ment  on  legitimate  grounds  !"  and  went  over  and  stood 
before  the  book-case  and  scanned  the  backs  of  the  books, 
all  standing  upright  in  military  order.  It  was  among  hib 
few  occupations  to  keep  them  so ;  and  Mr.  Courtenay, 
who  had  careless  habits  in  regard  to  the  books,  made  it 
necessary  for  him  to  go  over  them,  dusting  and  straight- 
ening up,  once  or  twice  a  week.  His  eye  fell  upon  the 
large,  handsome,  leather-bound  volume  of  Shakspeare, 
and  he  exclaimed,  dramatically,  "  Where  are  you,  William 
of  Stratford  ?  You  have  solved  that  momentous  question 
— To  be,  or  not  to  be — for  yourself,  but  not  for  us.  Burr, 
if  we  could  believe  that  all  these  great,  grand  souls  were 
gathered  somewhere  in  the  Beyond,  and  were  waiting  for 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


321 


us,  we  would  have  something  to  live  for  and  to  strive  for, 
— a  glorious  immortality  !  There  are  some  sweet  spirits 
here,"  tapping  the  books,  "that  I  would  much  like  to 
meet ;  communion  with  whom  would  satisfy  the  utmost 
longing  of  my  soul." 

"  But  I  strongly  suspect,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  "  that  all 
the  immortality  those  sweet  spirits  possessed  they  put  into 
their  works  and  left  behind  them.  Humanity  absorbs  and 
reabsorbs  them,  and  so  they  live  on  through  the  ages." 

"  That  theory  cuts  off  all  a  man's  possibilities,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  "and  even  loses  to  the  world  the  lesson  of 
grand  lives  lived  in  obscurity.  Nothing  is  of  any  conse- 
quence when  it  is  past,  but  the  leaving  our  mark  upon 
time.  If  our  advanced  thinkers  had  not  progressed  quite 
beyond  the  idea  of  immortality  of  spirit,  we  might,  in 
this  liberal  day, — with  regard  to  the  life  beyond  the 
grave, — have  the  most  beautiful  conception  the  human 
mind  is  capable  of.  Theology  has  taken  away  so  many 
of  its  old  restrictions  that  we  are  left  to  wander  in  Elysian 
fields  of  imagination  ;  and  every  man  can  choose  for  him- 
self out  of  the  illimitable.  But  alas  !  we  know  nothing. 
And  the  fear  of  there  being  nothing  behind  the  great 
curtain  of  death  palsies  our  energies,  makes  us  say,  If 
this  is  all,  how  little!" 

Presently,  Mr.  Courtenay  got  up  and  put  on  his  hat 
and  great-coat.  Mr.  Burns  asked  where  he  was  going. 

"Around  to  old  Shankey's  to  get  a  bottle  of  wine," 
said  he.  "  It  may  put  us  into  a  more  hilarious  mood." 

Mr.  Burns  did  not  object,  as  he  often  had  done.  In 
spite  of  his  morbid  views  of  life,  and  his  reckless  throw- 
ing away — or  at  least  wasteful  disuse — of  energy,  he  had  a 
keen  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of  manhood,  which  lay 
like  an  anchor  at  the  bottom  of  a  stormy  sea,  on  which  he 
might  toss  hither  and  thither  but  could  not  quite  float 
away.  When  Mr.  Courtenay  came  in  with  a  little  puff 
of  winter  about  him,  and  literally  shut  the  door  to  the 
world — locking  it — he  came  forward,  almost  eagerly,  with 
the  dogged  thought,  one  must  do  something,  and  made 
at  the  same  time  a  half-angry  resistance  to  the  feeling, 
strong  within  him,  that  it  was  contemptible  to  drink  wine 
for  the  purpose  of  raising  one's  spirits.  The  question 
o* 


322 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


came  up,  was  it  any  worse  for  himself  than  for  Burr? 
And  some  inner  consciousness  answered  in  the  affirmative. 
Burr  had  no  evidence  about  him  of  any  reproving  inner 
consciousness.  It  was  just  the  time  of  day,  he  said,  set- 
ting the  bottle  down  upon  the  table  and  shaking  the  rain- 
drops from  his  hair,  for  a  little  stimulus  to  come  in  and 
help  on  the  tide  that  regularly  ebbs  and  flows  in  the  human 
system  once  every  twenty-four  hours;  in  his  case  reach- 
ing the  lowest  point  somewhere  about  mid-day,  and  com- 
ing up  steadily  to  high  tide  from  that  time  until  ten  or 
eleven  o'clock  P.M. 

On  this  day  high  tide  occurred  a  little  earlier  than 
usual,  being  artificially  accelerated,  and  about  dusk  the 
young  men  had  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of  hilarity  as  re- 
quired the  guitar  to  be  brought  in  again.  Their  two 
voices — Mr.  Burns's  treble  and  Burr's  deep  bass — made 
an  excellent  duet.  No  matter,  now,  if  the  night  did  close 
in  in  utter  darkness  and  the  wind,  in  angry  gusts  and  heavy 
with  rain,  sweep  round  and  over  them,  driving  against  the 
windows,  rattling  the  unstable  little  building  and  threat- 
ening to  shake  it  down  over  their  heads.  It  had  defied 
worse  storms.  They  had  built  up  a  fire  and  opened  the 
grate,  and  the  ruddy  light  played  over  their  faces  that 
were  soon  devoid  of  melancholy,  though  from  time  to 
time  expressive  of  pathetic  emotion  as  the  sentiment  of 
the  song  waxed  touching  and  appealed  to  their  stimulated 
susceptibilities.  The  old  war  songs  were  all  gone  over 
with  intensified  recollection  of  days  gone  by.  Some 
negro  melodies  were  feelingly  rendered,  and  Sweet  Home 
and  Kathleen  Mavourneen.  The  latter,  especially,  Mr. 
Burns  excelled  in ;  singing  it  with  a  pathos  bordering  on 
affectation,  which,  somehow,  one  rather  likes  in  a  man's 
voice.  Then  Burr  called  for  Star  of  the  Evening,  which 
was  his  favorite,  and  conducted  the  air  himself;  Mr. 
Burns  giving  him  a  desultory  accompaniment  and  impro- 
vising a  disconnected  alto. 

Fred  came  over  from  the  hotel  and  said  "missus"  had 
been  keeping  their  supper  warm  for  an  hour,  and  wanted 
to  know  what  was  the  matter.  Mr.  Burns,  disturbed  at 
the  interruption,  was  about  to  despatch  him  back  with  the 
good-natured  message  to  let  the  supper  go  to  thunder; 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


323 


but  Burr,  who  was  always  the  cooler  on  these  occasions, 
returned  a  polite  answer  to  the  effect  that  they  were  ex- 
tremely sorry  to  have  occasioned  any  inconvenience,  but 
they  did  not  care  for  supper,  being  very  much  engaged  ; 
at  which  Fred  glanced  with  a  broad  grin  at  the  bottle  and 
the  glasses.  Mr.  Burns  poured  him  out  a  sparkling  goblet 
and  bade  him  drink  to  his  own  good  health  and  life-long 
prosperity.  After  which  he  took  his  departure,  Mr. 
Courtenay  getting  up  to  relock  the  door. 

It  was  mail-night,  and  men  were  splashing  along  the 
streets  with  lanterns  and  umbrellas.  Many  of  them, 
hearing  the  music  in  the  office,  paused  outside  and 
listened,  or  peered  in  at  the  window;  jested  among 
themselves,  and  reported  as  a  good  piece  of  gossip  when 
they  got  home  that  "  them  lawyers  was  havin'  a  jubilee 
again  to-night  with  their  wine  an'  their  singin'."  And 
it  is  a  fact — lamentable  or  otherwise — that  the  social 
standing  of  the  reckless  attorneys  did  not  suffer  greatly 
from  such  reports.  I  am  bound  to  say  in  their  defence 
that  they  had  never  allowed  themselves  to  become  beastly 
intoxicated  ;  but  they  took  no  pains  to  contradict  various 
assertions  to  that  effect,  and  no  precautions  against  their 
being  made.  They  sang  their  songs  and  emptied  their 
glasses  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  whole  village  ;  Mr. 
Courtenay  because  he  held  public  opinion  in  supreme 
contempt,  and  Mr.  Burns  because  he  scorned  secrecy  and 
preferred  to  take  the  bad  consequences  of  bad  conduct  on 
the  spot.  It  is  true  some  of  the  more  orthodox  members 
of  the  community  gathered  their  respectable  garments 
around  them  and  passed  by  with  averted  faces,  meaning 
to  frown  down  such  goings-on.  But  the  large  majority 
looked  with  indulgent  eyes  on  the  little  irregularities  of 
these  two  bright  lights. 

Deacon  Clyde  was  one  who  stopped  outside  in  the  rain 
and  the  darkness,  and  reported  to  his  family  and  the  two 
lady  guests  who  were  all  gathered,  as  usual  during  the 
early  evening  hours,  in  the  sitting-room,  busied  with  va- 
rious sorts  of  light  work,  that  the  lawyers  were  having  a 
concert,  and  he  guessed  they  were  a  little  tipsy;  adding, 
"They've  got  to  have  a  bout  once  in  a  while,  I  s'pose,  to 
keep  the  blues  off." 


324 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


"What  kind  of  a  concert?"  asked  Mrs.  Clyde,  looking 
up  through  her  spectacles  as  tne  deacon  took  out  his  news- 
paper and  brought  his  arm-chair  up  to  the  light. 

"A  kind  of  a  private  one,"  said  he,  laughing;  "any- 
how, the  audience  was  all  on  the  outside.  Some  of  'em 
tried  to  get  in,  but  the  door  was  locked.  They  had  their 
refreshments  spread  out  on  the  table,  and  Mr.  Burns  was 
playing  his  banjo." 

"  Oh,  uncle  !  his  guitar,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  and 
then  blushing  deeply. 

"  Maggie  knows !  he  played  it  under  her  window  one 
night,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clyde,  with  a  wink  at  the  visitors, 
rather  proud  to  mention  the  circumstance. 

"Auntie  !"  said  Maggie,  and  bent  over  her  work. 

Miss  Stuvysant,  with  her  hands  lying  in  her  lap,  turned 
her  luminous  eyes  upon  Maggie's  face  like  one  who  had 
received  a  shock  and  was  struggling  silently  and  with  the 
strong  effort  of  accustomed  self-control  to  adjust  herself 
to  a  strangely  altered  condition  of  things.  They  had 
been  domiciled  at  the  deacon's  a  couple  of  weeks,  and 
she  had  heard  frequent  laudable  mention  of  the  attorneys: 
their  knowledge,  their  eloquence,  their  indefatigable  efforts 
toward  getting  the  railroad,  and  their  growing  popularity. 
During  the  political  campaign,  when  Mr.  Burns's  chances 
for  Congress  were  the  universal  topic  of  discussion,  she 
had  felt  a  feverish  excitement  perhaps  greater  than  his 
own.  And  when  it  was  all  over,  it  was  a  hard  thing — 
one  of  the  many  hard  things  in  her  painful  relation  to 
him — that  she  could  not  go  and  offer  a  word  of  sympathy. 
Though,  of  course,  the  bare  thought  of  going  to  him  only 
crossed  her  mind  when  she  forgot,  momentarily,  the  great 
gulf  lying  between  them.  It  may  seem  strange,  yet  it  is 
a  fact,  that  such  moments  of  delicious  forgetfulness  did 
come,  even  after  all  these  years.  It  is  said  that  when  one 
has  lost  a  limb  the  sensation  of  its  being  still  in  its  place 
frequently  occurs.  So  when  one  has  lost  a  friend,  the 
old,  sweet  sensation  of  the  friendship  steals  back,  and  the 
waking  up  from  these  delusions  is  almost  as  full  of  anguish 
as  the  first  shock. 

It  was  perhaps  the  saddest  -thing  in  poor  Wilmingard's 
case  that  she  felt  herself  capable  of  making  Mr.  Burns's 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


325 


life  a  complete  and  perfect  life.  She  knew  his  proud, 
sensitive,  loving,  hopeful,  despairing  nature  so  well  !  She 
knew  just  where  she  could  soothe,  encourage,  cheer,  sym- 
pathize. She  felt  that  she  understood  just  how  time 
and  circumstances  had  swept  between  them,  causing  the 
estrangement  which  he  himself  had  at  last  made  final. 
The  thought  that  he  might  come,  some  time,  to  give  the 
love  that  had  been  hers  to  another  woman  had  never 
troubled  her  since  the  death  of  Miss  Maclvers.  It  did 
not  seem  possible.  Neither  did  she  believe  he  would 
ever  come  back  to  her.  What  she  hoped  for  and  looked 
forward  to  was  that  she  might  at  last  stand  on  a  high  level 
with  him — above  the  throbbing  passion-world — when  re- 
collection had  lost  its  sharpness  of  pain.  This  was  her 
religion.  She  believed  that  she  was  following  the  invisi- 
ble guidance  of  his  spirit.  She  had  come  upon  him  un- 
awares in  this  obscure  little  village,  which  fact  in  itself 
was  a  shock,  because  she  had  always  thought  of  him  as 
mingling  in  the  rush  and  tide  of  life  and  activity.  But 
the  stories  of  his  fame  and  popularity  made  her  heart 
thrill  again  with  the  old  pride  she  used  to  feel  in  him. 
She  had  never  before  had  a  hint  of  the  things  she  had 
heard  to-night.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  strong  current 
on  which  she  had  been  borne  all  these  years,  up  to  this 
moment,  was  setting  back  with  a  mighty  revulsion.  She 
felt  like  letting  go  the  oars  she  had  pulled  so  long  and 
sinking  down.  It  is  pitiful  to  find  that  we  have  built  our 
life  upon  a  delusion  !  And  yet  there  may  be  something 
in  the  life  itself — indeed,  there  must  be  if  the  habit  we 
have  acquired  is  a  good  habit — to  compensate  for  the 
shaken  foundation. 

As  soon  as  she  could  steady  her  voice  and  movements 
she  arose  and  bade  the  family  good-night,  with  her  usual 
kindly  courtesy,  and  went  up-stairs.  Kneeling  beside 
her  trunk,  she  opened  it  and  brought  out  from  its  depths 
a  portrait  of  Mr.  Burns,  taken  in  his  uniform  and  with 
the  first  flush  of  his  military  enthusiasm  upon  him.  She 
held  it  in  her  hand,  looking  at  it  passionately,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  can  it  be,"  she  cried,  "that  you  have  made  so 
little  of  your  noble  self?  When  you  were  but  a  boy  you 

28 


326  HIGH-  WA  TER-  MA  RK. 

scorned  such  follies  as  you  are  engaged  in  to-night,  my 
proud  Charley !" 

She  recalled  Mrs.  Clyde's  jest  and  Maggie's  blushes, 
and  felt  her  lip  curl;  but  gazing  at  the  beautiful,  boyish 
face,  with  its  high,  proud  look,  she  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  arm,  and  wept  as  she  had  hardly  ever  wept  be- 
fore. 

When  Miss  Cleveland  came  up  a  little  later,  the  light 
which  had  beamed  in  Miss  Stuvysant's  eyes  ever  since 
she  had  known  her — the  light  which  shines  from  a  soul 
looking  up  with  hope  and  trust — seemed  to  have  gone 
out. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  following  evening  being  a  little  less  dreary  than 
its  predecessor,  Mr.  Burns,  again  referring  to  the  deacon's 
family  and  their  guests,  proposed  to  go  up  and  call  upon 
them.  Mr.  Courtenay  declined,  saying,  "I  have  a  sus- 
picion that  you  will  not  see  Miss  Stuvysant,  and  I  do  not 
care  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  elderly  lady." 

"  The  acquaintance  of  the  elderly  lady  is  what  I  par- 
ticularly look  forward  to,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  and  immedi- 
ately prepared  himself  for  the  visit.  It  was  cold,  and  he 
stepped  to  the  closet,  remarking,  "I  think  I  had  better 
get  out  my  great-coat." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  approved  Mr.  Courtenay;  "it  does 
not  give  you  so  much  the  appearance  of  an  invalid  as  the 
blue  cloak  does." 

"What  shall  I  say  for  you,"  inquired  Mr.  Burns,  "in 
case  they  happen  to  speak  of  you  ?" 

"You  may  say  that  I  am  indisposed,"  said  Mr.  Courte- 
nay. "I'll  back  up  the  statement  by  not  leaving  the 
office  until  you  come  back.  If  you  are  not  well  enter- 
tained, you  can  make  my  case  pretty  serious  and  come 
home  early." 

"You  would  do  for  a  diplomatic  ambassador  at  the 
court  of  France,  or  some  other  polite  nation.  I  wonder 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


327 


why  you  never  directed  your  talents  to  that  end,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  and  went  out. 

As  had  happened  upon  a  former  occasion,  when  he  was 
ushered,  with  a  little  atmosphere  of  cold  air  about  him, 
into  the  warmth  and  light  of  the  deacon's  parlor,  the 
Kirkwoods  and  their  nephew  (the  doctor)  were  there, 
which  again  struck  him  with  a  not  altogether  pleasant 
sensation  at  first.  But  they  all  arose  and  welcomed  him, 
as  before,  with  so  much  cordiality  that  the  feeling  was 
dispelled,  and  he  took  his  place  upon  the  sofa,  near  Mag- 
gie, with  a  disposition  to  make  himself  agreeable.  His 
first  quick  glance  around  the  room  had  shown  him  that 
the  strange  ladies  were  not  present.  But  he  did  not  mind 
that  after  a  moment,  with  Maggie's  bright  face  before 
him,  and  knowing  that  her  whole  being  was  pulsing  with 
delight  that  he  was  near.  There  is  a  subtle  flattery  in  the 
knowledge  that  our  presence  gives  pleasure  which  is  very 
soothing,  and  which  makes  us  turn  very  kindly  towards 
the  one  who  conveys  it. 

Maggie  at  once  broached  the  subject  of  the  strange 
ladies,  having  an  impulsive  way  of  plunging  into  subjects. 

"  Did  you  know  that  that  Miss  Stuvysant,  whom  Eva 

and  I  heard  read  at  N City  once,  was  stopping  here  ?" 

she1  inquired. 

"I  supposed  it  was  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "I 
heard  you  had  some  visitors.  I  did  not  know  but  I  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  them  this  evening." 

"Would  you  like  to  meet  them?"  asked  Maggie.  "I'll 
go  and  ask  them  to  come  down  !"  And  before  Mr.  Burns 
could  protest,  she  darted  away,  skipped  up  the  stairs,  and 
knocked  at  the  visitors'  door. 

They  seemed  to  have  settled  themselves  for  the  evening. 
Miss  Stuvysant  was  writing,  and  Miss  Cleveland  had  some 
work  in  her  hands. 

"We  have  another  arrival  down-stairs,"  said  Maggie, 
a  little  out  of  breath  and  with  the  color  brightening  in 
her  cheeks.  "And  I  didn't  know  but  you  would  come 
down  now.  Mr.  Burns  is  here  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  Indeed?"  said  Miss  Cleveland. 

Miss  Stuvysant  dropped  her  pen  and  looked  up,  her 
face  growing  pale. 


328  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"  Shall  we  go  down  ?"  Miss  Cleveland  asked. 

"Oh,  no;  I  will  not,"  said  Miss  Stuvysant.  "But 
suppose  you  go  down  ?"  she  added. 

Miss  Cleveland  deliberated  a  moment  and  then  arose. 
"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I'll  smooth  my 
hair  and  come  presently;  you  need  not  wait  for  me, 
Maggie." 

Maggie  hastened  back. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Burns.     "  Did  you  succeed?" 

"Miss  Cleveland  is  coming  down,"  Maggie  returned. 
"  But  Miss  Stuvysant  refused.  I'm  sorry.  She  is  the  one 
I  wanted  you  to  see." 

"  Do  you  think  so  much  more  of  her  than  of  the  other 
lady?"  Mr.  Burns  asked. 

"Oh,  I  like  them  both,"  said  Maggie.  "But  Miss 
Stuvysant  is  so  much — I  hardly  know  what  to  say, — so 
much  more  attractive  than  Miss  Cleveland.  She  charms 
you  so  with  her  sad  eyes  and  sweet  smile." 

"  Oh,  has  she  sad  eyes?" 

"Maybe  you  would  not  think  so,"  said  Maggie.  "Eva 
doesn't.  But  when  I  sit  and  look  at  her  a  long  time  I 
always  think  I  see  something  sad  in  her  eyes.  Eva  says 
they  are  dark  and  thoughtful,  that  is  all.  But  I  cannot 
see  much  difference  between  'sad'  and  'thoughtful,'  can 
you?" 

Mr.  Burns  laughed.  "There  is  a  philosophy  in  that," 
said  he,  and  of  course  Maggie  did  not  understand. 

At  that  moment  Miss  Cleveland  came  in.  Miss  Clyde 
being  near  the  door,  drew  up  a  chair  for  her  near  Mrs. 
Kirkwood,  with  whom  she  immediately  fell  into  conver- 
sation, after  shaking  hands  with  the  minister  and  bowing 
to  Doctor  Webster  and  Mr.  Burns,  whose  names  Miss 
Clyde  mentioned.  The  doctor  and  Mr.  Burns  had  each, 
in  turn,  arisen  and  sat  down  again.  Mr.  Burns  being  at 
some  distance  from  her  watched  her  face,  liking  it  all  the 
better  the  more  he  saw  of  it.  Quiet,  yet  animated,  blue- 
eyed,  intelligent. 

By  and  by,  when  a  convenient  opportunity  occurred 
(Mrs.  Kirkwood  being  called  out  of  the  room  by  Mrs. 
Clyde  to  be  shown  something  in  another  part  of  the 
house),  he  excused  himself  to  Maggie  and  crossed  over 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  3  2  9 

to  her.     She  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him. 

"I  think  I  have  met  your  eyes  before,  Mr.  Burns," 
she  said.  "And,  besides,  you  are  a  person  of  so  much 
note  in  the  village  that  one  cannot  be  here  long  without, 
at  least,  getting  acquainted  with  your  reputation." 

"My  reputation,"  said  he,  flushing  a  little  at  the  re- 
membrance of  his  dissipations,  which  he  knew  to  be 
greatly  enlarged  upon  by  the  village  gossips,  "  I  am  afraid, 
will  not  commend  me  to  you.  I  must  make  a  strong  per- 
sonal effort  to  win  your  favor." 

Miss  Cleveland  laughed. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  am  so  much  of  an  egotist,  that 
I  ground  my  opinions  of  people  upon  my  own  judgment 
of  them  rather  than  upon  hearsay." 

"Good;  that  gives  one  a  better  chance,"  said  he. 
"  It  is  not  that  I  pride  myself  on  being  a  superior  lawyer, 
but  I  would  always  rather  plead  my  own  cause." 

"To  be  sure,"  she  returned.  "You  have  a  vital  in- 
terest in  it,  and  of  course  would  plead  eloquently.  But, 
really,  Mr.  Burns,"  she  continued,  "whatever  we  hear  of 
people  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  right  to  withhold  judgment 
upon  them  until  we  have  seen  and  studied  them  a  little. 
The  soul  of  a  man  is  an  excellent  stenographer  and  takes 
him  down  in  shorthand  upon  his  face,  upon  his  move- 
ments and  actions.  And  a  little  careful  study  will  enable 
us  to  decipher  the  hieroglyphics  which  the  unseen  sculp- 
tors are  working  upon  us." 

"  But  that  study,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  "  is  sadly  neglected, 
as  is  shown  by  our  being  so  often  taken  in." 

"  And  by  our  sometimes  entertaining  angels  unawares," 
returned  Miss  Cleveland,  smiling.  "  Perhaps  we  as  often 
fail  to  appreciate  as  we  overestimate.  I  was  admiring, 
the  other  day,  a  fine  collection  of  photographed  statuary, 
and  I  came  across  the  portrait  of  an  obscure  country 
clergyman  that  had  gotten  among  the  beautiful  ideal 
pictures.  It  was  a  homely,  intelligent,  sympathetic  face, 
with  lines  drawn  all  over  it,  representing  thought  and 
feeling,  and  it  struck  me  that  one  living,  human  being 
who  was  being  carved  from  within  was  worth  more  than 
all  the  chiselled  marble  in  the  world.  That  is,  that  the 

28* 


33° 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


lesson  of  his  life  was  worth  more  than  all  the  lessons 
wrought  in  stone.  I  am  afraid  we  sometimes  fail  to  esti- 
mate the  value  of  each  single  life.  There  are  so  many 
people  in  the  world,  there  are  such  crowds  wherever  we 
turn,  that  we  mass  them  together  like  so  many  inanimate 
things.  We  all  like  to  be  individualized.  I  suppose  that 
is  why  so  many  of  us  struggle  for  fame  and  position. 
We  want  to  be  lifted  up  where  people  can  see  that  we  are 
one,  apart  from  the  many." 

"  And  do  you  think  it  of  consequence  to  be  one  among 
the  many?"  Mr.  Burns  asked.  "I  mean,  do  you  con- 
sider that  this  brief  life  of  ours  is  of  sufficient  importance, 
even  at  the  best,  to  induce  us  to  make  the  most  of  our- 
selves?" 

"  Oh,  most  assuredly,  Mr.  Burns  !  Why,  do  you  doubt 
it  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  now,  more  than  ever  before  in 
the  history  of  the  world,  it  is  worth  while  to  beautify  and 
elevate  our  lives.  And  certainly,  it  has  always  been  of 
importance  that  men  should  make  the  most  of  themselves. 
We  can  see  that  very  easily — can  we  not? — by  looking 
back  on  the  steps  that  have  been  taken  upward  from  mere 
animal  existence.  It  is  of  incalculable  benefit  to  us  that 
men  did  what  they  could  with  their  hands  and  their 
brains  in  the  past ;  and  what  we  can  do  in  the  present 
may  be  infinitely  beneficial  to  future  generations." 

"Why  do  you  say,"  asked  Mr.  Burns,  "that  the 
present  is  a  better  time  to  be  and  to  do  than  the  past 
has  been  ?" 

"  Oh,  because  we  have  so  much  better  light,  so  much 
greater  freedom.  The  old  shells  of  prejudice  and  super- 
stition are  crumbling  away,  and  the  souls  of  men  are 
bursting  forth  with  new  life.  We  are  at  the  dawn  of  a 
new  era  of  unfettered  thought  and  purpose.  I  do  not 
envy  your  sex,  Mr.  Burns ;  but  I  feel  this :  oh,  to  be  a 
man  in  this  nineteenth  century  and  alive  to  the  grandeur 
of  it !  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  yet  waked  up  to  that? 
If  so,  I  must  give  you  a  shake." 

"I  wish  to  heaven  you  could!"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "I 
wish  you  could  rouse  me  out  of  the  morbid  lethargy  I 
have  fallen  into  in  this — excuse  me — damnable  little 
hamlet." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


331 


"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  laughing, 
"and  if  I  prick  you  hard  you  must  cry  out.  I  wish," 
she  added,  "  you  could  meet  my  friend." 

"  And  can  I  not?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  She  is  something  of  an  invalid  just 
now,  and  does  not  wish  to  meet  strangers.  However, 
I  will  try  and  persuade  her  to  make  an  exception  of 
you." 

"Do,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "Lay  my  forlorn  case  before 
her,  and  maybe  she  will  take  pity  on  me." 

It  was  a  little  dinner  party,  to  which  the  Kirkwoods 
had  been  invited,  and  Mr.  Burns,  being  pressed  to  re- 
main, did  so,  chiefly  on  Miss  Cleveland's  account.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  deacon's  parlor  walls  were  stretch- 
ing away  into  infinite  proportions  with  this  woman  in 
them  whose  mind  showed  such  a  vast  expanse.  Her  pres- 
ence was  like  the  out-door  air,  in  which  he  could  take 
deep,  delicious  breaths,  and  feel  intensely  satisfied.  She 
gave  him  that  comfortable  assurance  and  security  that  a 
strong  hand-clasp  in  the  darkness  gives  to  a  child  or  a 
woman.  At  dinner  he  had  her  beside  him  ;  Maggie  and 
Dr.  Webster  sat  opposite.  The  doctor  looked  across  and 
asked  Miss  Cleveland  the  stereotyped  question,  "  Madam, 
how  do  you  like  the  West?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,  indeed,"  she  answered.  "  This  is  not 
my  first  visit.  I  suppose  I  should  not  be  saying  anything 
original,  if  I  offered  an  objection  to  the  wind  !" 

"  That  depends  on  what  original  is,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 
"  I  hold  that  anything  we  discover  for  ourselves  is  orig- 
inal." 

"Then  we  must  all  have  a  vein  of  originality,"  said 
Mrs.  Kirkwood,  "for  I  hardly  think  any  one  would  fail 
to  make  the  discovery  you  speak  of  who  spends  any  time 
on  the  prairies." 

Mr.  Burns  laughed.  "Mrs.  Kirkwood  and  I,"  said 
he,  "discussed  the  subject  of  the  prairies,  on  a  former 
occasion,  at  great  length." 

As  soon  as  they  adjourned  to  the  parlor,  Miss  Cleve- 
land excused  herself,  fearing  her  friend  might  be  lonely, 
and  went  back  up-stairs,  and  to  Mr.  Burns  the  stimulus 
of  the  evening  was  gone.  The  parlor  walls  narrowed 


332 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


down  again  to  commonplace  dimensions,  and  all  the 
faces  grew  dull  and  the  voices  irksome.  He  felt  an  im- 
patient longing  to  get  away ;  and  I,  his  biographer,  am 
obliged  to  hurry  him  off  as  soon  as  is  possible  and  polite. 
Bowing  himself  from  the  deacon's  door-step, — the  door 
Maggie  held  open,  lighting  him  out  and  feeling,  some- 
how, that  his  leave-taking  was  very  unsatisfactory, — he 
hastened  home  and  found  Mr.  Courtenay  smoking  and 
reading  as  usual,  with  a  good  fire  in  the  stove.  He  laid 
aside  his  book,  but  kept  on  smoking.  The  president  of 
the  railroad  company  had  made  him  a  present  of  a  hand- 
some meerschaum  pipe,  which  he  took  great  pride  and 
interest  in  coloring. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "Did  you  have  a  pleasant  even- 
ing?" 

"Very,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "You  ought  to 
have  gone." 

"  Did  you  see  the  ladies?" 

"  I  saw  Miss  Cleveland." 

"The  elderly  spinster." 

"She  is  a  grand  woman  !"  said  Mr.  Burns,  uncompro- 
misingly. "She  is  a  woman  with  a  soul,  and  to  me  her 
face  is  beautiful  beyond  description." 

"  I  should  have  thought  her  past  the  stage  of  beauty," 
said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  mere  outside,  physical 
beauty.  I  mean  the  beauty  that  shines  from  within,"  said 
Mr.  Burns. 

"  Ah  !"  Mr.  Courtenay  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips 
and  eyed  it  admiringly.  "  I  see.  You  are  not  taken 
with  an  image  of  clay,  however  exquisitely  fashioned. 
You  prefer  the  meerschaum  that  grows  more  beautiful  with 
age  and  the  glowing  life  within  it.  I  had  never  thought 
of  applying  that  to  woman." 

"Burr,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  half  jestingly  and  half  in 
earnest,  "  I  am  lost  in  astonishment  sometimes  that  you 
and  I  have  held  together  so  long,  seeing  what  little  sim- 
ilarity there  is  between  us  !" 

"  I  suspect  that  is  just  the  secret  of  our  holding  to- 
gether," said  Burr.  "Existence  would  have  been  too 
tame  if  we  had  not  disagreed  so  well." 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  333 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

Miss  STUVYSANT  had  spent  the  evening  in  intense 
excitement,  walking  the  greater  part  of  the  time  back 
and  forth  the  short  length  of  the  chamber,  every  nerve 
a  quiver.  Now  and  then  she  had  opened  the  door  and 
leaned  over  the  banisters  to  catch,  if  possible,  the  tones 
of  the  voice  that  had  once  struck  so  thrillingly  upon  her 
ear  and  whose  echoes  sounded  in  her  memory  yet,  running 
like  an  undercurrent  through  all  the  music — glad  or  sad, 
or  gentle  or  tumultuous — of  her  life,  and  which  she  had 
never  yet  found  it  in  her  heart  even  to  try  to  hush.  But 
the  closed  parlor  doors  shut  off  all  distinct  sounds,  and 
only  a  confused  hum  reached  her.  When  her  friend  came 
up-stairs  she  turned  toward  her  with  bright,  inquiring 
eyes. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  afraid  you  have  had  a  long,  lonely  even- 
ing," said  Miss  Cleveland.  "I  got  so  deeply  interested 
in  that  young  lawyer  that  I  could  not  tear  myself  away. 
I  think  it  would  have  done  you  good  to  meet  him  ;  more- 
over, I  think  it  would  have  done  him  good  to  meet  you." 

"  Why  so?"  Miss  Stuvysant  asked. 

"Because  I  think  he  needs  a  little  help.  He  feels  so 
keenly  the  social  and  intellectual  poverty  of  a  place  like 
this." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Stuvysant,  with  a  flash  of  her  dark 
eyes,  "  the  world  is  wide  and  contains  incalculable  wealth 
in  those  directions.  I  suppose  he  was  not  compelled  to 
plant  himself  in  the  desert.  If  one  deliberately  puts  one- 
self in  the  way  of  poverty  he  must  accept  its  privations. 
And  he  ought  to  do  it  without  complaining." 

Miss  Cleveland  laughed. 

"  My  dear,  I  wonder  if  ever  one  friend  endeavored  to 
prepossess  another  in  favor  of  a  third,  and  succeeded?  I 
fully  intended  you  should  like  Mr.  Burns,  and  I  ignorantly 
thought  I  could  show  him  to  you  just  as  he  appeared  to 
me.  Now  to  me  there  was  something  rather  noble  in  his 
taking  a  stand  in  these  Western  wildernesses  instead  of 


334 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


hovering,  like  so  many  other  busy  bees,  around  the  sweet 
cups  of  Eastern  wealth  and  pleasure.  He  is  not  one  who 
must  simply  gather  up  from  the  outside ;  there  is  enough 
in  him  to  grow  up  and  make  a  man.  I  like  that  spirit  of 
sturdy  independence  that  cuts  loose  from  the  helps  that 
so  often  prove  hindrances,  and  stands  alone.  Such  natures 
have  a  chance  to  grow  broad  and  strong ;  and  they  do. 
I  unwarily  admitted  that  Mr.  Burns  complained.  I  have 
no  doubt,  my  dear,  that  that  grand  old  oak  which  you 
and  I  observed  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  ten-mile  stretch 
of  loveliness  on  the  prairie  not  very  far  from  here,  mur- 
murs in  its  leafy  top  at  its  isolation  from  all  its  kind.  And 
yet  if  it  had  grown  among  a  thousand  others  it  might  not 
have  been  half  so  fine.  However  strong  we  are,  we  all 
want  sympathy.  Mr.  Burns,  I  think,  is  peculiarly  in  need 
of  it.  It  may  be  the  breakers  have  not  tossed  him  about 
much  bodily  ;  to  outside  eyes  his  life  may  appear  serene 
enough ;  but  to  me  he  seems  to  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
inner  experience.  He  has  fought  and  suffered,  and  hoped 
and  despaired,  and  labored  all  within  himself;  there  is 
evidence  in  his  face  of  fires  that  have  burned  fiercely — 
and  smoulder  yet  perhaps.  I  fancy  that  life  to  him  has 
seemed  sometimes — maybe  it  does  now — like  struggling 
in  deep  water  to  save  himself  from  sinking  down.  That 
is  why  I  said  he  needed  a  hand  held  out  to  him.  He 
knows  that  he  is  endowed  with  a  rare  nature,  and  he  has 
a  dread  of  its  being  wasted.  He  wants  to  do  something, 
and  be  something  worthy  of  himself.  And  this,  my  dear, 
is  the  farthest  remove  from  egotism.  I  have  hardly  a 
doubt  that  his  life  here  is  just  the  right  discipline  for 
something  that  may  come  hereafter.  It  is  only  in  the 
rebound  from  the  lowest  that  we  reach  the  highest.  Our 
feet  must  touch  bottom  in  the  dark,  deep  streams  of  life 
if  we  would  have  our  elastic  souls  spring  up  to  meet  the 
brightness  of  a  perfect  day." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  I  feel  that  !"  said  Miss  Stuvysant, 
fervently.  "  I  do  believe  with  a  firm  conviction  which  my 
own  experience  has  strengthened,  that  everything  which 
comes  to  us  is  for  our  good.  Everything,  I  mean,  except 
our  own  sins  and  mistakes.  And  even  those  may  be 
turned  to  account  in  bettering  our  after-lives ;  though  I 


HIGH-  IV A  TER-MARK. 


335 


dislike  that  thought,  there  is  a  sort  of  exultant  selfishness 
in  it ;  our  sins  and  mistakes  have  so  close  a  bearing  upon 
our  fellow-beings  !  I  almost  hated  the  king  in  Auerbach's 
On  the  Heights." 

"But  after  all,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  "  the  only  thing 
left  him  was  to  take  the  consequences  of  his  sin  and,  as 
you  say,  turn  them  to  account  in  bettering  his  after-life." 

After  a  little  silence  fraught  with  deep  feeling,  at  least 
on  the  part  of  Miss  Stuvysant,  she  said,  "I  have  never 
told  you  much  about  myself,  dear  Miss  Cleveland  !  Long 
before  I  knew  you  there  was  a  time  when  everything  was 
so  dark  to  me  that  I  longed  to  die.  I  did  not  think  of 
the  rest  and  peace  that  many  people  link  with  the  idea  of 
death.  I  only  wanted  oblivion.  I  shrank  as  much  from 
consciousness  upon  the  other  side  of  the  grave  as  upon 
this.  If  I  thought  of  God  at  all  and  believed  in  Him,  I 
believed  only  that  He  was  good  and  merciful  and  would 
not  drag  me  up  into  another  miserable  existence  after  this 
was  ended.  I  was  a  poor  little  handful  of  dust  animated 
with  suffering  rather  than  with  life  ;  for  life  means  growth 
and  blossom  and  fruitage,  and  I  did  not  live  in  any  such 
sense." 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  interrupt- 
ing her,  "you  lived  in  the  sense  in  which  trees  live  in 
winter.  The  soil  in  which  our  souls'  growths  spring  up 
must  have  a  season  of  inactivity, — a  sort  of  brooding-time, 
as  it  were." 

Miss  Stuvysant  smiled,  though  tears  were  rolling  down 
her  cheeks. 

"Well,  it  was  a  hard,  cruel,  bitter  winter,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  I  pity  myself,  even  now,  in  the  recollection  of  it ! 
I  was  so  little  and  frail,  so  borne  down  and  dejected,  so 
rejected  and  cast  down,  as  though  utterly  unworthy  of  all 
I  craved.  Oh,  it  is  so  hard  when,  in  the  ignorance  and 
innocence  of  youth,  you  have  believed  in  yourself  through 
the  strong  assurance  of  those  you  loved,  to  be  put  aside  ! 
To  lose  not  only  your  place  in  the  hearts  you  trusted,  but 
even  in  your  own  happy  self-confidence ;  for  that  follows 
when  the  arm  you  leaned  upon  and  relied  upon  as  upon  the 
very  truth  of  God,  turns  and  casts  you  off.  Then  it  is 
that  woman  forgets  her  womanliness,  and  pride  cannot 


336  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

come  to  her  rescue.  Then  she  bows  down.  Oh,  God, 
pity  her!  Oh,  God,  pity  her !" 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  in  a  wild  paroxysm  of  tears.  Miss 
Cleveland  knelt  down  and  wound  her  arms  strongly  around 
her. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  do  not  give  way  to  that 
feeling  !  I  knew  you  must  have  suffered  ;  I  knew  it  be- 
cause you  are  what  you  are.  It  could  not  be  otherwise. 
But  it  is  all  past  and  gone  now ;  you  have  many  dear 
friends  who  feel  your  worth,  and  you  are  restored  to  faith 
in  yourself.  And  it  is  a  truer  faith  than  that  grounded 
in  youthful  inexperience  and  in  your  friends'  kindly  praise. 
Can  you  not  look  back  even  now  and  think  that  all  was 
for  the  best?  After  the  smoke  of  battle  has  cleared  away 
we  can  see  just  where  we  stood.  We  may  see,  too,  how 
the  very  cloud  that  oppressed  us  protected  us.  Think  of 
this,  dear  child.  What  are  they  that  have  never  struggled 
and  suffered  ?  Their  souls'  depths  have  never  been  sounded. 
The  passionate  music  that  has  pulsed  along  the  great  world's 
throbbing  heart  through  all  the  past  has  no  deep  meanings 
for  them.  I  used  to  like  to  repeat,  during  my  own  time 
of  trouble, — 

"  '  In  life's  goblet  freely  press 

The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  its  colored  waters  less  ; 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress, 

New  life  and  strength  they  give. 
For  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  glow, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 

He  has  not  learned  to  live.' '' 

Miss  Stuvysant  dried  her  tears  and  arose. 

"It  is  weak  of  me  to  do  this,"  she  said.  "It  is  not 
often  of  late  years  that  I  have  felt  so  broken  down  as  I 
have  to-night." 

"  You  will  feel  better  to-morrow,"  said  Miss  Cleveland, 
caressingly;  "go  to  bed  and  sleep.  These  things  will 
come  tiding  back  to  us  all  through  life.  A  great  sorrow 
will  never  quite  fold  its  wings  and  lie  still  in  the  past." 

There  had  been  frequent  openings  and  closings  of  the 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


337 


doors  below,  and  all  the  visitors  had  departed,  and  the 
family  had  retired  to  their  respective  rooms ;  the  deacon 
and  his  wife  to  slumber  peacefully,  Maggie  to  divide  pleas- 
ant and  painful  thoughts  between  Mr.  Btirns's  indifference 
and  Dr.  Webster's  gallantry  toward  her,  and  Evelyn  to 
lie  awake  for  hours  torturing  herself  with  speculations  as 
to  why  Mr.  Courtenay  had  ceased  his  visits. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

THE  following  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  a  visitor 
sprang  out  of  a  buggy  in  front  of  the  law-office  and  came 
in,  carrying  a  whip  in  his  gloved  hand.  He  introduced 
himself  as  Ralph  Rosevelt.  Perhaps  they  had  heard  of 
him,  he  suggested,  with  bland  egotism.  Oh,  yes,  they 
had  heard  of  him,  the  rich  farmer  and  cattle-buyer  living 
at  the  extreme  northeast  corner  of  the  county.  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay set  out  a  chair  which  Mr.  Rosevelt,  thanking  him, 
declined,  saying  that  his  business  was  brief.  He  had 
come  to  engage  an  attorney's  services  on  a  trifling  law- 
suit. He  was  a  large,  burly  man,  showily  dressed,  dis- 
playing a  good  deal  of  jewelry  about  his  person,  and  con- 
veying an  idea  of  wealth  and  vulgarity.  When  he  spoke 
of  the  lawsuit  he  hinted,  with  a  smirk,  that  there  was  a 
woman  connected  with  it ;  at  which  Mr.  Burns  looked  up 
sharply,  and  Mr.  Courtenay,  with  a  fine  sense  of  decency, 
dropped  his  eyes.  Mr.  Rosevelt,  catching  Mr.  Burns's 
glance,  was  disconcerted  a  little,  and  moved  back  his  chair 
and  sat  down,  tapping  the  floor  with  the  handle  of  his 
whip ;  and  thereafter  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  Mr. 
Courtenay,  the  countenance  of  that  accomplished  attor- 
ney expressing  nothing  but  polite  interest  as  he  inquired 
into  the  nature  of  the  case.  It  seemed  that  Mr.  Rosevelt 
had  been  proceeded  against  by  the  husband  of  the  woman 
for  beguiling  her  affection  away  from  himself. 

"And  you  wish  to  prove  the  accusation  groundless,  I 
suppose?"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Of  course.  What  else  could  a  man  do?"  Mr.  Rose- 
p  29 


338  HIGH-WATER-MARK. 

velt  demanded,  with  a  laugh.  "And  between  you  and 
me  it  is  groundless,  which  is  the  ugliest  part  of  it,  ha,  ha.' 
The  fellow's  a  fool  and  doesn't  know  it;  he  has  got  the 
brightest  and  most  virtuous  little  woman  in  the  world,  and 
he  doesn't  know  that,  either.  Too  smart  for  him  by  a 
damned  sight ;  and  so  high-strung  that  she  would  snap  if 
you  touched  her  with  the  tip  of  your  finger." 

"  I  suppose  he  wants  to  get  some  money  out  of  you," 
said  Mr.  Courtenay. 

"Yes, — no,  I  don't  think  it's  that  so  much  as  his 
temper.  The  fool's  jealous ;  which  is  another  way  of 
saying  his  wife's  too  good  for  him  ;  an  acknowledgment 
I  wouldn't  make,  for  my  part,  ha,  ha." 

He  glanced  at  Mr.  Burns  again,  who  seemed  to  have  a 
subduing  effect  upon  him,  for  he  drew  down  his  face  and 
arose.  At  that  moment  another  visitor,  having  hitched 
his  horse  to  a  post  outside,  came  in.  A  small,  sandy- 
haired,  excitable  individual,  who  also  carried  a  whip  in  his 
hand  which  he  clutched  nervously  as  his  glance  encoun- 
tered the  burly  Rosevelt. 

"You  here,  you  scoundrel?"  he  hissed,  getting  in- 
stantly almost  beside  himself  with  rage  and  hate. 

Rosevelt  grasped  his  whip  as  if  to  strike  him,  but  con- 
trolled himself.  The  new-comer — Marks  was  his  name — 
turned  to  the  attorneys. 

"  Have  both  you  gentlemen  agreed  to  take  sides  with 
that  villain  against  honor  and  decency?  I  can  tell -you 
in  a  few  words  how  the  case  stands  between  us.  He 
wants  to  beat  me  in  law,  while  at  the  same  time  he  exults 
over  me  in  his  mean  soul  in  the  triumph  of  winning  away 
my  wife.  He  wants  a  double  triumph,  and  he  hasn't  even 
the  decency  to  conceal  it.  He  makes  a  boast  of  it." 

Mr.  Courtenay  was  about  to  recommend  milder  language, 
when  Mr.  Burns  interposed.  "  I  believe,"  said  he,  "  that 
Mr.  Courtenay  has  agreed  to  a  proposition  from  Mr.  Rose- 
velt;  if  you  wish,  I  will  undertake  the  prosecution." 

"But  I  intended  to  retain  you  both,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Rosevelt.  "  You  are  partners,  are  you  not?" 

"No,  we  are  not.  And  I  assure  you,  sir,  you  will  find 
Mr.  Courtenay  fully  adequate  for  your  defence  if  I  prose- 
cute." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


339 


"When  is  the  trial  to  take  place?"  Mr.  Courtenay 
asked. 

"Oh,  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Rosevelt.  "Before 
Squire  Blakey,  our  Briarly  Hollow  magistrate.  I  presume 
the  court  is  already  assembled.  It  is  four  o'clock  now,  and 
we've  got  a  ten-mile  drive,"  taking  out  a  massive  gold 
watch.  "  You  can  get  right  in  with  me  and  we'll  be  off." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay.  "I  have  a  con- 
veyance of  my  own  which  I  would  prefer  taking,  and  that 
will  save  you  the  trouble  of  bringing  me  back." 

"  And  you,"  said  Mr.  Marks,  addressing  his  attorney, 
"can  ride  with  me,  and  I  will  explain  the  case  on  the 
way." 

"I  am  much  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  a  little  coldly; 
"  but  I  presume  the  case  will  develop  itself  when  the  wit- 
nesses appear.  I  will  go  with  Mr.  Courtenay." 

Mr.  Rosevelt  had  already  gone  out  and  driven  off  at  a 
fast  trot.  Mr.  Marks  followed  him,  and  Mr.  Burns  went 
out  the  back  door  to  harness  Nobby,  leaving  Burr  to  gather 
up  a  few  law-books  and  put  them  in  a  valise. 

Nobby  was  a  fleet-footed  animal,  and  Mr.  Burns  took 
great  pride  in  his  gait  and  carriage ;  a  feeling,  by  the  way, 
which  his  companion  did  not  share.  Nevertheless  it  was 
nightfall  when  they  drew  up  before  Squire  Blakey's  un- 
pretentious abode  with  its  homely  surroundings,  rickety 
stables,  straw-covered  sheds,  and  spacious  barnyard  with 
cattle  lying  down  and  dogs  coming  up  to  bark  a  good- 
natured  welcome.  Mr.  Burns  was  about  to  apostrophize 
the  scene  in  a  line  or  two  of  pastoral  poetry,  when  a  half- 
grown  boy  detached  himself  from  a  group  in  the  door- 
yard  and  came  up  to  the  carriage,  examined  Nobby  with 
the  glance  of  a  connoisseur  in  horse-flesh,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  rein  with  the  kindly  familiarity  which  the 
boy-nature  readily  assumes  toward  the  lower  animals. 
"Feed  him  oats,  or  corn?"  he  asked,  shutting  one  eye 
and  looking  up  inquiringly  with  the  other. 

"  He  won't  murmur  at  either,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  getting 
upon  the  ground  and  stretching  his  legs.  "  Rub  him 
down  well,  my  boy;  we  have  given  him  a  pretty  hard 
drive.  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "we  shall  bring  up  all 
right  if  we  follow  the  path  that  leads  up  from  this  gate?" 


340 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  who  seemed  to  have  a  facetious 
vein,  "it  aint  much  of  a  trick  to  find  the  right  door; 
there's  only  one, — except  another  clean  round  t'other 
side  o'  the  house." 

Thus  enlightened  they  opened  the  gate  and  proceeded 
toward  the  house.  Lights  were  flashing  through  the  un- 
covered windows,  and  showed  them  a  commodious  kitchen 
improvised  into  a  court-room  ;  the  squire  seated  at  a  table 
on  which  lay  a  pile  of  books  and  some  writing  utensils, 
and  a  motley  assemblage  of  people  seated  upon  chairs  and 
benches.  The  squire  himself  arose  to  open  the  door  and 
received  them  pompously,  never  having  had  the  pleasure, 
as  he  said,  of  making  their  legal  acquaintance  before. 
His  daughter,  a  young  lady  of  some  pretentions  to  style 
and  fashion,  and  with  an  air  of  feeling  superior  to  her 
surroundings,  conducted  them  coquettishly  across  into  the 
best  room  to  take  off  their  hats  and  great-coats.  Her 
mother,  a  spare,  elderly  woman,  in  a  clean  white  cap 
with  loosened  strings,  came  in  and  apologized  for  having 
"court"  held  in  the  kitchen. 

"There's  so  many  that  comes  stragglin'  in  at  sich  a 
time  as  this,"  she  explained,  "  that  it  would  ruin  a  body's 
carpet. ' ' 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  stepping  over 
to  the  little  parlor  stove,  in  which  a  newly-kindled  fire 
crackled  and  snapped,  to  warm  his  hands.  "The  kitchen 
is  quite  good  enough  for  gatherings  of  this  nature." 

The  carpet  was  a  rag  carpet,  and  the  long,  white  cur- 
tains, looped  with  scrupulous  precision,  were  coarse  mus- 
lin ;  but  it  was  a  nice,  tidy  room  nevertheless,  and  it 
would  have  been  a  pity  to  bring  all  those  coarse  boots  and 
their  tobacco- chewing  owners  into  it.  As  soon  as  the 
attorneys  got  the  numbness  warmed  out  of  their  fingers, 
for  it  had  been  quite  chilly  riding,  they  stepped  out  to 
the  "court-room,"  and  preparations  were  made  for  the 
trial  to  begin. 

The  woman  who  "  was  connected  with  it"  was  a  pretty, 
bright-eyed  brunette,  with  hot,  indignant  blushes  in  her 
cheeks.  Mr.  Courtenay  wondered  how  she  came  to  be 
married  to  the  sandy-haired  individual,  and  Mr.  Burns 
was  surprised  at  her  reputed  preference  for  the  burly  Rose- 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  34I 

velt.  Public  sentiment  appeared  to  be  in  her  favor,  but 
that  was  all,  the  evidence,  such  as  there  was,  being  upon 
the  other  side.  Mr.  Burns  felt  himself  in  a  delicate  posi- 
tion between  sympathy  and  consideration  for  the  woman, 
and  indignation  toward  Rosevelt.  It  appeared  to  him,  as 
the  case  developed  itself,  that  Mrs.  Marks  was  the  victim 
of  both  the  accused  and  the  accuser,  and  that  she  held 
them  both  in  disdain  for  dragging  her  through  the  mire 
of  a  public  lawsuit.  Her  husband  was  jealous,  irritable, 
and  bad  tempered  ;  and  Rosevelt,  who  admired  her  and 
had  taken  several  occasions  of  forcing  his  society  upon 
her  out  of  revenge  for  her  contempt  of  him,  had  played 
upon  her  husband's  jealousy  and  anger,  and  so,  inadver- 
tently, brought  the  matter  before  the  public,  rather  glory- 
ing in  the  notoriety,  but  anxious  to  throw  the  costs  upon 
his  adversary.  The  misdemeanors  for  which  he  was  ar- 
raigned were  not  very  flagrant  violations  of  law,  and  yet 
sufficient,  perhaps,  to  have  turned  the  tide  against  him — 
he  having  no  witnesses  and  depending  wholly  upon  his 
lawyer, — had  not  that  shrewd  barrister  hit  upon  a  device 
that  necessitated  an  adjournment  until  the  following  morn- 
ing, and  then  brought  the  trial  to  a  speedy  close.  It  was 
this :  Opposed  to  half  a  dozen  disreputable  men  and 
women  who  affirmed  that  upon  several  occasions  they  had 
seen  Mrs.  Marks  in  company  with  defendant  at  unseason- 
able hours  and  in  out-of-the-way  places,  Mr.  Courtenay 
brought  double  the  number  of  witnesses  to  declare  under 
oath  that  nothing  of  the  kind  had  ever  been  seen  by  them. 
No  amount  of  questioning  or  cross-questioning  could  elicit 
anything  further, — not  a  particle  of  evidence  was  there  to 
bear  upon  the  case  in  hand, — and  Mr.  Burns  looked  upon 
it  as  rather  a  cumbersome  joke,  and  not  being  in  a  face- 
tious humor,  passed  it  over,  in  making  his  plea,  with  little 
comment.  His  astonishment  was  extreme  when  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay arose  and  made  that  absurd  testimony  the  ground- 
work of  a  long  and  able  argument.  Selecting  one  £>f  the 
leather-covered  volumes  from  the  kitchen  table,  he  turned 
the  leaves  and  pointed  to  a  paragraph  containing  the  pro- 
vision that  "Judgment  shall  be  rendered  in  favor  of  that 
side  upon  which  there  is  a  preponderance  of  testimony." 
Taking  this  for  a  text,  and  warping  it  so  that  a  superior 

29* 


342 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


number  of  witnesses  was  made  to  appear  analogous  to  a 
"  preponderance  of  testimony,"  he  drew  a  striking  com- 
parison between  the  two  sides  of  the  house,  and  sat  down 
amid  boisterous  applause. 

Mr.  Burns  arose  indignantly,  and  endeavored  to  explain 
the  sophistry.  "  Is  it  necessary,"  he  demanded,  "that 
the  whole  neighborhood  should  witness  a  theft  in  order  to 
convict  the  robber?"  He  quoted  and  read  law  in  regard 
to  witnesses  and  testimony  at  great  length,  and  got  him- 
self thoroughly  warmed  up  on  the  subject ;  and  for  once, 
at  least,  was  a  match  for  his  ready-witted  opponent.  Mr. 
Courtenay  replied  ;  parliamentary  rules  were  set  aside, 
and  the  argument  descended  to  a  personal  debate,  having 
little  reference  to  judge  or  jury.  Finally,  after  repeated 
calls  to  order  from  the  "court,"  who  felt  that  its  dignity 
was  being  disregarded,  they  sat  down,  having  expended 
their  sharpest  sarcasms  upon  each  other ;  whose  subtle- 
ties, though  but  imperfectly  understood,  were  loudly  ap- 
plauded by  the  gaping  audience.  The  squire  summed  up 
the  testimony,  and  in  his  "charge"  dwelt  at  great  length 
upon  defendant's  preponderancy  of  evidence  (having  a 
leaning  toward  the  wealthy  Rosevelt),  and  the  jury  brought 
a  verdict  in  his  favor. 

Mr.  Marks  fairly  stamped  with  rage  and  disappointment, 
while  his  opponent  indulged  in  a  supercilious  quietude  of 
manner,  probably  for  the  sake  of  contrast.  Mrs.  Marks, 
of  whom  Mr.  Courtenay  had  made  pathetic  mention  in 
his  plea,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Burns  had  referred  in  the  most 
delicate  and  respectful  manner  as  being  in  no  way  an- 
swerable for  the  charges  brought  against  Rosevelt,  and  in 
his  opinion  uncompromised  by  them,  arose,  when  the  trial 
was  at  an  end,  and  approached  him  with  eyes  still  flashing 
and  cheeks  still  burning,  and  thanked  him  for  his  kind- 
ness and  consideration. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  you  on  business  of  my  own,"  she 
said,  with  a  quivering  of  her  lips.  "I  mean  to  get  a 
divorce.  I  can't  live  with  him  after  this.  Will  you  come 
over  to  my  house?" 

"Where  do  you  live?"  Mr.  Burns  asked. 

"Across  the  fields,  yonder,  about  a  mile  from  here. 
I  want  you  to  see  mother." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  343 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  I  will  see  what  I  can 
do,"  and  she  turned  away. 

Domestic  troubles  were,  of  all  things  that  came  in  the 
way  of  his  professional  practice,  the  most  sickening  to 
Mr.  Burns's  soul.  There  were  other  cases  wherein  poor 
men's  earnings  were  wrenched  from  them  by  the  hard 
grasp  of  the  law,  or  where  widows  and  orphans  suffered 
through  fraudulent  tricks  of  apparent  justice,  that  had 
made  him  wish,  many  a  time,  he  had  chosen  some  other 
work  to  do  in  the  world  than  seeking  to  disentangle  the 
threads  that  vice  and  cunning  and  bad  nature  are  forever 
weaving  around  the  innocent  and  unsuspecting.  But  this 
cutting  among  the  heart-strings  that  had  once  thrilled  to 
the  sweet  music  of  love,  this  making  of  widows  and  or- 
phans that  should  be  left  to  the  hand  of  death  alone, 
were  most  distressing. 

To  go  back  to  the  evening  before.  After  adjournment 
Mr.  Rosevelt  invited  both  attorneys  home  with  him  to 
spend  the  night,  ignoring,  in  Mr.  Burns's  case,  any  un- 
pleasantness in  their  relations  toward  each  other  ;  showing 
that  somewhere  in  his  coarse  nature — at  least,  so  Mr. 
Burns  interpreted  it — there  was  a  streak  of  delicacy  and 
good  breeding.  Though  it  might  have  been  mere  policy, 
a  man  of  Mr.  Rosevelt's  cunning  and  experience — and 
success  in  certain  directions — being  capable  of  looking  a 
great  way  ahead,  and  keeping  a  good  many  irons  in  the 
fire  ready  for  future  use.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other 
way;  the  squire's  house  was  small  and  overflowing  with 
boys  and  girls  in  all  stages  of  growth,  and  they  were 
constrained  to  accept  the  hospitality  that  offered. 

As  they  were  about  starting  Mr.  Rosevelt  remarked  to 
Mr.  Courtenay,  "If  it  is  not  objectionable  to  you  or 
your  friend,  I  would  like  to  have  you  get  in  with  me, 
and  Mr.  Burns  can  follow  us." 

"Certainly  not,"  they  said. 

Mr.  Rosevelt's  place  was  not  above  a  mile  and  a  half 
distant,  and  was  situated  in  the  belt  of  timber  close  by  the 
river.  The  house,  however,  was  approached  by  a  long  ave- 
nue of  maples,  very  bright  just  now  in  their  autumn  dress. 
At  the  end  of  this  there  was  a  wide  "clearing"  for  the 


344 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


buildings,  with  here  and  there  a  picturesque  and  mighty 
oak  left  standing.  The  house  was  a  large,  white  Gothic 
cottage-house,  with  porticoes  and  verandas,  and  green 
blinds  at  the  windows.  It  was  enfolded  lovingly  in  the 
arms  of  two  or  three  of  the  massive  oaks,  and  had  a  most 
homelike  and  beautiful  aspect,  bursting  upon  the  sight  in 
the  stillness  of  a  perfect  moonlight  night.  It  was  very 
late,  but  there  were  lights  glimmering  through  the  blinds. 
Long  before  they  reached  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
avenue,  a  deep-mouthed  dog  began  baying  loudly  and 
tugging  at  a  huge  chain  by  which  he  was  fastened  in  one 
corner  of  the  yard.  Two  men  came  out  of  the  rear  of 
the  house  and  took  charge  of  the  horses. 

"Folks  sitting  up  yet?"  Mr.  Rosevelt  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  one  of  them  answered,  respectfully. 

Mr.  Burns  began  insensibly  to  think  better  of  his  host. 
As  they  walked  up  the  path  to  the  front  door,  it  struck 
him  that  it  was  the  loveliest,  most  peaceful-looking  abode 
he  had  seen  in  the  West.  Surely  the  man  out  of  whose 
brain  the  conception  of  it  had  come,  and  whose  hands 
had  executed  it,  must  have  a  good  side  to  him.  Two 
small  boys,  with  curly  heads  and  the  brightest  black  eyes, 
came  running  to  meet  him  as  he  opened  the  door,  but 
backed  down  shyly  at  the  sight  of  the  strangers.  Four 
other  boys,  two  of  them  quite  grown,  were  seated  round 
a  large  centre-table  strewn  with  magazines  and  papers. 
A  tall  woman,  with  a  queenly  head  and  grand,  dark  eyes, 
sat  among  them,  but  arose  as  they  entered,  and  the  boys 
all  followed  her  example. 

Mr.  Rosevelt  addressed  her  as  "wife,"  and  presented 
the  attorneys,  whom  she  received  with  grave  but  kindly 
courtesy  ;  starting  a  little  when  Mr.  Courtenay's  name 
was  mentioned,  and  looking  at  him  sharply. 

"And  here,"  Mr.  Rosevelt  continued,  "you  see  the 
rest  of  my  family,  Frank,  the  eldest,  and  Ralph,  and 
Jake,  and  Ben,  and  those  little  urchins  under  the  table, 
Ned  and  Joe.  They,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "are 
genuine  backwoodsmen;  never  have  seen  'society,'  ha, 
ha.  Marjory,"  addressing  his  wife,  "  you  must  take  them 
East  next  time  you  make  a  trip  and  get  them  a  little  used 
to  the  world." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


345 


"That  is  a  lesson  they  will  learn  soon  enough,"  said 
Mrs.  Rosevelt,  smiling  toward  Mr.  Burns,  whose  face, 
from  the  first  moment,  she  seemed  to  like.  "I  thought 
I  would  give  nature  the  first  chance  with  them.  They 
run  about  the  woods  and  paddle  their  little  boat  upon  the 
river,  and  we  teach  them  all  the  time  without  their  know- 
ing it,  and  they  are  as  happy  as  any  other  young  animals." 

"You  are  adopting  the  German  method  with  them," 
said  Mr.  Burns;  and  added,  laughing,  "I  shall  always 
regret  that  I  lived  my  childhood  before  the  days  of  '  Kin- 
dergarten.' I  pity  myself  even  now — poor  little  morsel 
of  humanity  ! — when  I  look  back  on  my  early  school- 
days." 

"Yes;  the  world  is  getting  better  to  the  children  in 
many  respects,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevelt. 

"And  better  for  the  grown  folks,  also;  is  it  not, 
mother?"  remarked  Frank,  the  eldest,  in  a  voice  so  rich 
and  deep  for  his  years, — he  could  not  have  been  above 
eighteen, — and,  moreover,  falling  upon  Mr.  Burns's  ears 
with  such  a  strangely  familiar  sound,  that  he  started  and 
looked  keenly  at  the  speaker,  who  returned  his  gaze  with 
a  pair  of  mild  but  intensely  black  eyes. 

Mr.  Burns's  thought  was,  "  What  a  beautiful  boy  !  I 
must  have  seen  a  painting  somewhere  that  looks  like  him." 

Like  the  other  Rosevelts,  he  had  black  hair  curling  all 
over  his  head,  but  his  skin  was  fair  and  rosy.  He  was 
short  in  stature  and  rather  fleshy  ;  his  hands  and  feet  were 
remarkably  small,  but  finely  shaped,  his  fingers  tapering 
to  delicate,  shell-tinted  tips.  Evidently  he  was  not  vain 
of  his  beauty;  it  rather  embarrassed  him.  He  blushed 
like  a  girl  under  Mr.  Burns's  continued,  admiring  gaze. 
It  was  easy  to  discover,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour, 
that  he  was  the  idol  of  the  household,  and  that  he  de- 
served the  affection  his  charming  person  and  manners 
inspired.  He  had  recently  graduated  at  the  State  Uni- 
versity, and  was  now  about  to  enter  a  theological  seminary 
and  study  for  the  ministry.  He  told  Mr.  Burns,  subse- 
quently, that  he  had  hesitated  between  preaching  and 
teaching.  He  would  have  liked  to  secure  a  professorship 
of  rhetoric  and  elocution  in  some  college.  "  I  am  a 
worshipper  of  language,"  he  said.  "  I  love  words  better 
v* 


346  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

than  pictures  or  music.  They  are  the  more  laconic  and 
precise  expressions  of  thought.  They  have  been  born  of 
the  stress  of  human  needs  and  polished  by  the  utterance 
of  millions.  I  love  to  trace  them  back  to  their  begin- 
nings; I  like  to  know  the  circumstances  that  called  them 
into  being.  I  know  language  changes,  but  we  can  still 
dive  down  through  all  the  variations  and  grasp  the  old, 
imperishable  roots." 

"And  have  you  gone  to  the  bottom  of  many  languages?" 
Mr.  Burns  asked,  not  without  a  touch  of  sarcasm  ;  for  that 
had  come  to  be  almost  a  habit  of  his  mind. 

The  young  man  blushed,  and  seemed  to  draw  back  a 
little. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  he.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  if  I  gave 
you  such  an  impression." 

Mr.  Burns,  sorry  that  he  had  wounded  him,  hastened 
to  make  reparation. 

"  I  suspect  you  have  given  some  attention  to  elocution, 
and  I  should  like  to  hear  you  read.  Excuse  me  for  saying 
it,  but  you  have,  it  seems  to  me,  a  very  remarkable  voice." 

"It  is  a  natural  endowment,  however,  Mr.  Burns,"  said 
Mrs.  Rosevelt,  who  had  been  a  listener  to  the  conversa- 
tion. "Frank  has  been  too  thorough  a  student  to  give 
his  time  to  the  cultivation  of  one  faculty,  except  inci- 
dentally. "However,"  she  added,  "we  all  like  his  read- 
ing, and  I  am  sure  it  will  give  him  pleasure  to  entertain 
you." 

"Marjory,"  said  Mr.  Rosevelt,  shortly  after  they  were 
seated,  "can't  we  have  a  little  music  before  we  retire?" 

He  seemed,  in  the  midst  of  his  home-circle,  greatly 
influenced  by  its  air  of  refinement.  His  coarseness  was 
toned  down,  and  his  selfishness  and  egotism  passed  into 
the  wider  channel  of  affection  for,  and  pride  in,  his  family. 
He  was  very  generous,  too,  as  regarded  money,  spending 
it  lavishly  for  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  life,  and  for 
the  good  of  his  wife  and  children.  Selfishness  was  the 
root  and  tree  of  his  nature,  but  it  bore  some  sweet  blos- 
soms, nevertheless. 

Mrs.  Rosevelt  went  to  the  piano,  an  old-fashioned  but 
finely-toned  instrument,  standing  open  and  loaded  with 
music.  The  boys  all  gathered  around  her  and  took  the 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


347 


different  parts  in  a  quartette,  making  a  charming  picture 
as  well  as  a  most  pleasing  harmony.  It  was  after  this 
that  Mr.  Burns  had  the  before-mentioned  conversation 
with  Frank. 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Rosevelt  took  the  two  younger  children 
and  went  out  of  the  room.  Ralph  and  Jake  also  said 
"good-night,"  and  vanished.  Mr.  Rosevelt  and  Mr. 
Courtenay,  at  a  little  distance,  sat  talking  together.  Mr. 
Burns  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  appearance  of  a  woman 
standing  in  the  doorway  near  him  and  looking  across  at 
Burr,  who  did  not  observe  her,  with  a  wild,  unearthly 
expression.  He  had  not  heard  her  step,  and  there  was 
no  rustling  of  the  soft,  dark  garments  she  wore.  In  a 
moment  she  turned,  threw  up  her  hands,  and  glided  away 
as  noiselessly  as  she  came.  Mr.  Burns  looked  inquiringly 
at  his  companion. 

"It  is  my  Aunt  Laura,  my  mother's  sister,"  he  ex- 
plained, with  a  slight  shade  of  embarrassment. 

Mrs.  Rosevelt  re-entered,  and  the  little  circle  broke  up 
for  the  night.  The  following  morning  after  breakfast 
Mr.  Burns  went  back  to  his  room  to  look  for  some  papers 
he  had  missed,  and,  the  window  being  hung  upon  hinges, 
he  opened  it  and  stepped  out  on  the  veranda  to  look 
about  and  to  collect  his  thoughts  for  the  day's  business. 
Burr  and  Mr.  Rosevelt  were  in  the  yard  below,  at  some 
distance,  leaning  against  the  fence,  smoking  cigars.  Mr. 
Burns  took  a  turn  around  the  corner  of  the  house  and 
went  down  a  short  flight  of  steps,  at  the  foot  of  which 
was  a  clump  of  shrubbery  that  had  not  yet  lost  its  foliage, 
.and  came  suddenly  upon  a  figure,  which  he  recognized  as 
the  apparition  of  the  evening  before,  crouching  behind  it, 
parting  the  leaves  with  her  hands,  and  looking  with  an 
intense  gaze  in  the  direction  of  the  men,  from  whose 
sight  she  was  herself  safely  concealed. 

"Poor  thing;  insane,"  thought  Mr. 'Burns,  compas- 
sionately. 

Hearing  his  step  she  sprang  up  wildly,  stared  at  him  an 
instant,  and  then  turned  and  flew  away  with  almost  in- 
credible speed  and  noiselessness. 

It  took  some  time  for  Mr.  Rosevelt  to  gather  up  his 
witnesses,  and  the  trial  was  not  resumed  until  afternoon ; 


348  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

and  in  the  mean  time  Mr.  Burns  prosecuted  his  acquain- 
tance with  the  Rosevelt  family.  Frank  took  him  into  a 
long  parlor  with  a  high  ceiling  and  entertained  him  for 
an  hour,  with  readings  and  recitations,  in  the  most  charm- 
ing manner,  evincing  the  rare  cultivation  which  proves 
that  the  highest  art  is  the  perfection  of  nature.  His  lan- 
guage was  a  continual  surprise,  such  as  would  indicate  in 
an  older  man  years  of  thought  and  study  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  he  exhibited  the  pure  guilelessness  of  a  child. 
He  reverenced  his  mother  with  an  absolute  devotion,  and 
informed  Mr.  Burns  with  tears  of  tenderness  in  his  beau- 
tiful eyes  that  he  owed  everything  he  possessed,  even  his 
capacity  of  appreciating  and  enjoying,  to  her. 

"She  has  never  fallen  short  in  anything,"  he  said. 
"  Her  mind  is  so  large,  her  sympathies  so  broad,  that 
they  go  beyond  me  in  every  direction.  I  lose  myself 
in  her  larger  world.  I  think,"  he  added,  "it  is  because 
of  her  indomitable  energy ;  she  has  none  of  that  inertia 
which  prevents  the  most  of  us  from  developing  our  possi- 
bilities. You  observe  that  she  has  a  remarkably  fine 
physique.  She  has  bodily  capability  as  well  as  mental. 
Her  sons,  with  the  exception  of  myself,  resemble  her." 

"  But  you  have  vigor,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  I  have  vitality,"  said  he,  laughing.  "I  am  too  fat. 
I  have  to  fight  against  inertia." 

The  trial  closed  before  nightfall,  but  there  being  every 
appearance  of  a  heavy  storm,  the  attorneys  were  con- 
strained to  accept  Mr.  Rosevelt's  hospitality  again.  Mr. 
Burns  was  the  more  easily  persuaded,  as  he  had  it  in  his 
mind  to  see  Mrs.  Marks  again  before  he  went  home. 
Then,  too,  he  had  been  pressed  to  come  back  by  Mrs. 
Rosevelt,  who  seemed  to  feel  that  his  companionship  was 
good  for  her  son. 

It  cleared  up  about  dusk,  after  a  brief  but  fierce  storm 
of  wind  and  rain,  and  the  moon  came  out.  Mr.  Burns, 
ascertaining  that  the  Marks's  cottage  was  barely  half  a  mile 
from  Mr.  Rosevelt's,  excused  himself  for  an  hour  and 
stepped  over  there.  It  was  a  very  small  cottage,  but 
white  and  clean,  and  the  garden  and  grass-plot  around  it 
were  protected  from  the  outside  world  of  greedy  animals 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


349 


by  a  neat  picket-fence.  Everything  about  it  bore  evidence 
of  labor  and  care.  The  walk  up  from  the  gate  was  clean 
swept  and  bordered  with  flower-beds,  though  the  flowers 
had  long  ago  been  nipped  by  the  frost. 

Mr.  Burns  knocked,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  Mrs. 
Marks,  who  had  evidently  been  crying.  An  old  lady, 
whom  she  very  much  resembled,  and  whom  she  introduced 
as  "mother,"  sat  rocking  a  golden-haired  child  to  sleep 
in  her  arms.  Another  lay  on  a  little  bed  in  one  corner 
of  the  room. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  come  to  urge  Susie  on  to  get  a 
divorce,"  said  the  old  lady,  bridling  a  little  at  mention 
of  Mr.  Burns's  name. 

"  Far  from  it,"  said  he.  "  I  have  come  to  try  to  make 
peace,  and  I  am  glad  that  heavenly  spirit  has  an  advocate 
here  before  me." 

"Well,  that's  right,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Better  to 
grin  an'  bear,  than  to  go  to  getting  divorces  an'  bringin' 
disgrace  an'  hardships  on  the  little  ones.  It's  bad  enough 
when  Providence  sees  fit  to  separate  parents  an'  scatter 
families,  without  them  taking  it  in  their  own  hands  to  do 
it.  I  know  it's  awful  the  way  John  has  been  going  on, 
but  then  he's  jealous  an*  quick-tempered  ;  I  always  knowed 
that,  an'  so  did  Susie  afore  she  married  him.  An'  if  she 
liked  him  well  enough  to  put  up  with  it  then,  she  ought 
to  now." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  put  up  with  all  the  disgrace  ?  how  can 
I?"  Susie  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands  and  bursting 
out  afresh.  "  I  don't  know  how  you,  as  a  mother,  can 
advise  me  to  it !" 

"  Oh,  Susie  !  it  is  because  I  am  a  grandmother,"  said 
the  poor  old  lady,  stroking  with  her  withered  hand  the 
golden  hair  of  the  sleeping  child  on  which  her  tears  fell 
fast.  "John  loves  these  little  ones,  and  you,  too,  in  spite 
of  all  his  faults ;  and  he  is  fond  of  his  home,  and  has 
worked  so  hard  to  make  it  comfortable  for  us  all.  Think 
how  he  has  toiled,  summer  an'  winter,  an'  day  an'  night 
almost  ;  an'  all  for  you." 

"Perhaps,  Mrs.  Marks,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  who  felt  that 
the  mother  would  be  sure  to  win  in  the  end,  "we  had 
better  let  the  matter  rest  for  a  little  time.  Decisive  ac- 

3° 


350 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


tions  at  such  times  as  this  are  almost  sure  to  be  regretted. 
Is  Mr.  Marks  about?  I  would  like  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  him." 

"  He  is  out-doors,  somewhere,"  said  the  old  lady,  and 
he  took  up  his  hat,  bade  them  "good-night,"  and  went 
away. 

When  he  reached  the  gate  he  found  Mr.  Marks  leaning 
moodily  upon  it.  He  started  violently  and  exclaimed, 
"  What !  have  you  been  to  see  my  wife — about  getting  a 
divorce?" 

"  I  don't  think  your  wife  will  want  a  divorce  if  you  can 
turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  make  a  man  of  yourself,"  said 
Mr.  Burns,  a  little  sharply.  "I  have  recommended  her 
not  to  attempt  it  at  present.  Not  that  I  have  any  doubts 
about  her  being  able  to  obtain  it.  I  have  none.  But  it  is 
better  in  almost  every  case  for  a  husband  and  wife  to  hold 
together  if  they  can,  especially  if  there  are  children. 
Children  have  rights  in  such  matters  that  ought  to  be 
respected;  though  parents  seldom  think  of  that.  And 
now  I  would  recommend  you  to  treat  your  wife  with  a 
little  more  respect  than  you  have  just  shown  in  dragging 
her  before  the  public  in  this  disgraceful  way.  Such  an 
outrage  is  more  than  almost  any  sensitive,  delicate  woman 
can  bear.  The  proceedings  of  yesterday  and  to-day  have 
proved  to  me,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  you  have  a  good  and 
virtuous  wife  ;  one  who  ought  to  be  held  far  above  sus- 
picion. Make  yourself  worthy  of  her.  Go  and  ask  her 
forgiveness,  and  her  mother's  who  gave  her  to  you,  for 
your  treatment  of  her.  Sell  out  your  property  here,  and 
go  to  some  new  place  and  begin  over  again.  That  is  the 
best  advice,  as  a  friend,  that  I  can  give  you." 

"  I  would  sell  to-morrow  if  I  could  !"  said  the  excitable 
man. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  may  help  you  to  find  a  buyer,"  said 
Mr.  Burns.  "  How  much  land  have  you?" 

"Only  a  'forty.'  " 

"Very  well,  I  will  try  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

He  said  "good-night"  and  walked  away,  a  little  sick 
at  heart,  as  he  always  was  at  any  exhibition  of  the  woes 
of  the  world. 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  35  x 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

THE  night  was  so  still  and  beautiful  that  Mr.  Burns,  as  he 
approached  theRosevelt  premises  again,  felt  averse  to  going 
in-doors.  Besides,  he  wanted  to  think  over  the  Marks's 
affairs  and  make  up  his  mind  how  he  could  help  them. 
He  turned  off  into  an  ornamental  grove — or  what  had 
been  planned  for  an  ornamental  grove — just  north  of  the 
house,  and  walked  slowly  along  a  narrow  path  under  a 
row  of  maple-trees.  He  soon  became  conscious  of  an- 
other presence ;  the  faint  odor  of  a  cigar  was  wafted  to 
him  from  somewhere,  and  he  felt  sure  that  Burr,  like 
himself,  had  strolled  out  for  an  hour  of  quiet  thinking. 
But  how  could  he  have  excused  himself  from  the  family? 
It  might  be  that  owing  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour  the 
night  before  when  they  retired,  they  had  dispersed  earlier 
to-night. 

Mr.  Rosevelt  had  said  to  him  when  he  went  away,  "  If 
you  stay  late  and  we  are  gone  to  bed  when  you  come 
home,  you  can  step  into  your  room  through  the  window, 
if  Mr.  Courtenay  will  leave  it  unfastened." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  found  that  it  was  already 
past  ten  o'clock.  Just  then  a  figure  emerged  from  a  path 
that  led  from  the  house  a  few  rods  ahead  of  him  and 
walked  leisurely  across  a  broad  lawn  to  the  left.  He 
made  sure  it  was  Burr,  and  was  about  to  follow  and  call 
out  to  him  when,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  lawn, 
appeared  another  figure,  which  he,  by  and  by,  recognized 
as  "  Aunt  Laura,"  coming  direct  to  meet  him.  It  looked 
very  much,  in  that  quiet,  hedged-in  spot,  like  a  contrived 
plan.  He  stopped  and  leaned  against  the  tree  in  whose 
shadow  he  was  standing,  and  felt  a  strange,  but  not  new, 
misgiving  of  his  friend.  Was  it  possible  Burr  had  known 
this  lady  hitherto? 

He  flung  away  his  cigar  when  she  approached  him,  and 
for  once  forgot  his  accustomed  courteousness  and  did  not 
bow  or  lift  his  hat.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in  the 
intense  earnestness  of  her  manner  that  would  have  made 


352 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


such  formality  appear  trifling.  She  came  up  to  him  in  a 
half- beseech  ing,  half-defiant  attitude,  her  hands  extended, 
but  her  bearing  erect.  Burr  folded  his  arms  and  stood 
as  if  hardening  himself  against  appeal.  It  was  plain  that 
it  was  not  a  sentimental  meeting.  Perhaps  in  some  far- 
away beginning  his  relations  with  this  strange  creature 
had  been  sentimental  enough,  and  now  had  come  the 
hard  reality. 

Mr.  Burns  could  hear  the  sound  of  their  voices,  but  no 
intelligible  words.  Presently,  as  if  to  favor  him,  they 
turned  and  walked  slowly  toward  him,  the  woman  talking 
vehemently  but  in  slightly  muffled  tones. 

"  No,"  said  Burr,  in  a  low,  emphatic  voice,  "  it  is  use- 
less for  you  to  talk,  Laura ;  I  should  think  your  intuition 
would  tell  you  it  is  a  '  lost  cause.'  The  past  is  dead  and 
cannot  be  resurrected.  Go  back  home.  Don't  stay  here 
in  this  wilderness." 

"  Stop  !"  she  cried.  "  I  had  something  to  tell  you, — a 
secret  I  have  kept  from  you  for  eighteen  years.  But  your 
heart  is  hard  as  adamant ;  and  now,  God  forgive  me !  I 
will  murder  you,  Burr  Courtenay." 

She  sprang  in  front  of  him  with  fierce  tragedy,  and, 
quick  as  thought,  drew  a  pistol  from  her  bosom  and 
levelled  it  at  his  breast.  But  Burr,  who  was  remarkably 
quick  and  adroit,  when  disposed  to  be,  caught  her  wrist 
and  wrenched  it  from  her  and  flung  it  away.  It  lodged 
almost  at  Mr.  Burns's  feet.  Burr  held  her  hand  for  a 
moment,  and  then  let  it  drop.  Almost  instantly  a  small, 
pointed  stiletto  gleamed  in  the  moonlight.  She  grasped 
it  in  both  her  hands  and  made  a  plunge  at  him. 

"  I  have  waited  years  for  this  hour,"  she  cried,  "  and  I 
am  prepared  for  it !" 

But  again  Burr  caught  her  hands  and  held  them,  try- 
ing, as  it  seemed,  to  subdue  the  fierce  spirit  with  his 
magnetic  eyes. 

"  Laura,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  to  suppose  you 
could  match  your  poor,  little  strength  against  mine?  If 
you  wanted  to  kill  me, — and  I  suppose  you  did, — why  did 
you  not  conceal  yourself  among  those  trees,  and  fire  on  me 
as  I  passed  along  ?  It  would  have  been  much  surer,  and 
I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  cared  much.  I  am 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  3  5  3 

not  very  tenacious  of  life ;  it  is  not  so  sweet  to  me  as  it 
was  once, — when  you  and  I  loved  each  other,  Laura  ! 
But  I  could  not  let  you  kill  me  with  my  eyes  open.  I 
respect  the  law — of  which  you  know  I  am  an  humble 
representative — too  much  to  allow  myself  to  become  an 
aider  and  abettor  of  murder." 

She  shuddered  at  the  word  "murder,"  and  he  let  go 
her  hands  again  without  depriving  her  of  the  knife.  She 
let  it  drop  upon  the  ground,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"There,  don't  cry,  Laura  !"  he  said,  and  put  out  his 
hand  and  touched  her  with  a  sort  of  caress,  which  cer- 
tainly was  more  cruel  than  his  harshness  to  her.  "  Go 
into  the  house,  some  one  may  miss  you ;  and  as  soon  as 
you  can,  go  back  home ;  you  will  be  far  happier  there. 
You  have  wealth,  and  that  is  as  much  happiness  as  half 
the  world  ask.  If  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  know 
that  I  shall  never  marry  again,  why,  believe  me,  I  never 
shall." 

He  put  her  from  him  gently,  and  turned  and  walked 
rapidly  away.  She  looked  after  him  with  streaming  eyes, 
raised  her  hands  imploringly,  and  then  in  utter  hopeless- 
ness and  helplessness  dropped  them  and  went  slowly 
toward  the  house,  sobbing  and  moaning. 

It  was  many  minutes  before  Mr.  Burns  could  wake  up 
from  the  horrible  nightmare  into  which  this  strange  scene 
had  thrown  him.  His  great  love  for  his  friend  had  re- 
ceived another  cruel  wound,  but  it  could  not  die.  Much 
as  he  loathed  deceit  and  heartlessness,  he  could  not  loathe 
Burr  Courtenay.  The  side  which  he  had  turned  to  him 
had. always  been  gentle  and  noble,  even  self-sacrificing. 
Burr  must  surely,  all  his  life,  have  been  the  victim  of 
strange  circumstances  !  The  words,  "  If  it  will  be  any 
gratification  to  you  to  know  that  I  shall  never  marry 
again,"  made  a  startling  revelation  to  him.  Had  Burr 
then  once  been  married,  and  to  this  woman  ?  What  a 
history  had  been  going  on  in  the  soul  of  his  friend  all 
these  years  that  he  had  known  nothing  of!  It  was  a 
grief  to  him,  which  he  could  not  get  over,  that  Burr  had, 
after  all,  never  taken  him  into  his  heart,  but  had  kept  him 
always  on  the  outer  threshold  with  the  door  closed  be- 
tween. And  yet,  when  he  thought  of  it,  it  had  been  a 

30* 


354 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


good  deal  so  with  himself.  His  own  secret  had  lain,  for 
years,  away  from  Burr's  sight.  There  had  been  genuine 
loving-kindness  between  them,  but  not  the  sympathy  that 
discloses  all  the  soul's  emotions. 

They  started  home  early  the  following  morning,  and 
drove  the  greater  part  of  the  way  in  silence ;  Mr.  Barns 
being  too  heavy-hearted  to  care  to  keep  up  conversation, 
and  Mr.  Courtenay  too  preoccupied.  His  face  looked 
blanched  and  hollow,  as  if  he  had  not  slept.  For  days 
they  lived  quite  apart  from  each  other,  by  tacit  consent. 
Mr.  Burns  had  the  feeling  that  in  his  desponding  moods 
he  could  no  more  turn  to  his  friend  with  the  secret  assur- 
ance of  being  rallied  out  of  them  ;  for  he,  too,  had  his 
burdens  to  bear.  And  there  is  a  kind  of  generous  mock- 
ery in  trying  to  lighten  another  heart  when  one's  own  is 
heavy  laden,  which  he  would  not  subject.  Burr  to.  One 
thing  he  was  glad  of:  that  Burr  seemed  to  have  ceased 
altogether  his  attentions  to  Miss  Clyde,  and  also  quite 
ignored  the  foolish  child,  Sarah  Jenkins, — not  so  much  as 
bowing  to  her  on  the  street.  One  day  he  met  the  former, 
and  was  pained  to  see  that  she  was  looking  quite  white 
and  thin  ;  but  she  still  carried  herself  with  the  old,  proud 
bearing.  She  was  one  who  could  suffer  death,  and  not 
cry  out.  Burr  had  always  had  a  preference  for  these 
queenly  women. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

IN  the  midst  of  Mr.  Burns's  melancholy  depression  of 
spirit,  his  mind  reverted  to  Miss  Cleveland.  Her  society 
and  friendship — for  he  felt  himself  able  to  grasp  that,  be- 
lieving, when  he  remembered  her  calm  face  and  cloudless 
eyes,  that  there  could  be  no  disguises  between  himself  and 
her — could  not  fail  to  be  a  help  to  him.  He  caught  at 
the  idea  with  his  customary  avidity,  and  began  to  carry 
it  into  effect.  For  a  week  every  evening  found  him  at 
Deacon  Clyde's  door,  asking  always  for  Miss  Cleveland, 
so  that  Maggie's  heart  grew  sick  and  she  fell  back  upon 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


355 


her  old  resolution  again,  though  perhaps  with  not  so  many 
tears,  for,  as  I  have  intimated,  Dr.  Webster  was  looming 
up  in  her  horizon  ;  dim  as  yet,  like  the  moon  before 
the  sun  has  set,  but  promising  to  grow  brighter,  as  that 
pale  beauty  does  when  His  Supreme  Majesty  has  veiled 
his  splendor. 

Miss  Cleveland  always  came  down  and  met  him  with 
a  cordial  face  and  kindly  hand-pressure  and  beguiled  him 
away  from  himself  into  her  own  serene,  hopeful  world, 
showing  him  glimpses  of  a  thousand  reasons  why  it  is 
worth  while  to  live,  without  a  hint  of  the  didactic  in  word 
or  manner.  Miss  Cleveland's  life  was  a  continual  lesson, 
and  a  most  pleasing  one,  with  a  sort  of  Kindergarten  prin- 
ciple running  through  it ;  a  constant  teaching  without 
seeming  to  teach,  which  is  the  great  secret  of  successful 
instruction.  There  is  a  perversity  in  young  human  animals 
as  in  young  colts;  they  will  eat  grass  in  a  green  pasture, 
but  they  hate  to  have  the  halter  slipped  around  their  necks 
and  be  led  to  the  stable  where  the  hay  is  cut  and  dried. 
Mr.  Burns  no  more  dreamed  that  Miss  Cleveland  prepared 
his  lessons  for  him  than  the  colt  suspects  his  master  of 
fencing  in  the  pasture  field.  But  she  did.  She  knew 
that  he  stood  in  need  of  a  little  wholesome  food ;  some 
of  the  fresh,  green  grass  growing  up  strong  and  sweet 
above  last  year's  sod.  To  him  it  all  seemed  the  spontane- 
ous, unthinking  budding  out  of  the  womanhood  in  her. 
There  was  something,  he  told  himself,  in  the  delicate  fibre 
of  a  woman's  mind,  cultivated  and  pure,  that  chimed  in 
exactly  with  the  organization  of  his  own  ;  which,  itself, 
had  a  feminine  tone  and  sweetness  that  no  strong  man 
need  be  ashamed  of. 

One  evening — it  was  cold  and  raining  a  little,  and  Mr. 
Courtenay,  whose  life  was  flowing  on  again  without  any 
perceptible  ruffling  of  its  unfathomable  waters,  would  have 
thought  it  much  too  disagreeable  to  venture  out, — Mr. 
Burns  donned  his  great-coat  and  started  off  up  the  hill. 
It  was  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  and  when  Bridget  ushered 
him  into  the  parlor  it  was  not  yet  lighted  except  by  the 
coals  in  the  grate,  that  made  a  subdued  though  cheerful 
play  of  lights  and  shadows  upon  the  walls.  The  room 
had  a  soft,  penetrating  warmth  permeated  by  some  delicate 


356  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

perfume;  and  seemed  all  the  more  inviting  with  just  that 
glow-worm  of  fire.  Drawn  up  before  it  were  two  low 
rocking-chairs  moving  slowly  to  and  fro. 

"Ah,  is  it  you,  Mr.  Burns?  Good-evening,"  said  Miss 
Cleveland's  voice  out  of  the  soft  darkness,  as  she  rose  to 
meet  him.  "Now  I  shall  have  the  great  pleasure  of  in- 
troducing my  two  friends  to  each  other.  Miss  Stuvysant 
happens  to  be  down-stairs  this  evening,  Mr.  Burns." 

She  took  Mr.  Burns's  hand  and  carried  it  on  to  Miss 
Stuvysant,  who  had  risen  as  if  electrified,  and  stood  still. 

"You  will  not  be  able  to  see  each  other's  faces,"  Miss 
Cleveland  added,  laughing.  "  Pray  be  seated,  Mr.  Burns, 
and  I  will  go  and  find  a  lamp." 

She  went  out,  and  Mr.  Burns  took  the  chair  she  had 
vacated.  Miss  Stuvysant,  unable  to  move,  still  stood  with 
her  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  hers.  The  firelight  shone 
faintly  upon  her,  and  Mr.  Burns  looked  at  her  inquiringly, 
and  wondered  if  she  were  meditating  flight. 

"  I  must  prevent  that,"  he  thought ;  "  at  least  until  they 
bring  a  light  so  that  I  can  see  her  face."  And  he  made 
a  plunge  at  conversation. 

Miss  Stuvysant's  lips  had  tried  to  form  the  words,  "  Will 
you  excuse  me,  Mr.  Burns?"  but  no  sound  passed  them. 
To  his  remark  that  the  night  seemed  to  be  getting  stormy, 
she  returned,  in  a  low  voice,  dropping  into  her  chair, 
"  Yes,  the  wind  sounds  very  wintry." 

Bridget  came  in  with  a  lamp  and  said,  "  Miss  Cleve- 
land begs  ye  to  intertain  each  other  fur  a  spell ;  she  has 
something  out  here  to  see  to." 

She  hurried  out  the  moment  she  had  set  the  lamp  on 
the  table,  and  Mr.  Burns  met  Miss  Stuvysant's  eyes  and 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "  My  God  !  it  is  Wilmingard." 

She,  too,  rose  up,  and  in  the  moment  that  intervened 
before  he  locked  her  two  hands  in  his,  she  regained  her 
strength,  and  in  her  face,  in  her  deep,  shadowy  brown 
eyes,  he  saw,  by  an  inner  vision,  as  plainly  as  we  see  ob- 
jects with  the  external  eye,  the  reflection  of  the  wide  gulf 
which  his  hand  had  made  between  them.  The  first  mo- 
ment of  recognition, — that  which  she  had  sometimes,  in 
self-indulgent  moods,  allowed  herself  to  look  forward  to 
as  the  supreme  moment  of  her  life, — fanned  into  sudden 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


357 


flame  his  old,  boyish  loyalty  to  her.  But  it  faded  in  the 
quick-following  consciousness  of  all  that  had  since  divided 
them,  and  their  present  relations  to  each  other.  Mr. 
Burns  loosened  his  grasp  and  she  withdrew  her  hands. 
She  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  though  her  voice  was 
steady  and  quite  under  her  control,  she  showed  no  affec- 
tation of  unconsciousness  or  indifference  regarding  their 
attitude  toward  each  other. 

"I  presume  we  should  both  have  avoided  this  meeting 
if  we  could  have  foreseen  it,"  she  said.  "If  you  will 
excuse  me,  I  will  go  and  see  if  Miss  Cleveland  will  not 
come  in  now  " 

"Wilraaj" 

He  stepped  before  her  and  put  out  his  hand  as  she  turned 
toward  the  door.  His  mind  was  rapidly  linking  the  past 
with  the  present,  and  showing  him  through  what  she  had 
gone  to  reach  the  height  she  stood  upon  now;  for  her 
noble,  patient,  tender  face  revealed  so  much  to  which  he 
alone,  perhaps,  had  the  key ! 

"Do  not  go!"  he  said.  "Sit  down  and  let  us  talk. 
Your  life — for  I  have  heard  something  of  it,  and  I  see 
something  of  it  in  yourself,  as  you  stand  there — forbids 
the  presumptuousness  of  my  asking  your  forgiveness,  even 
for  the  wrongs  I  have  done  you.  They  were  wrongs, 
though  you  may  have  borne  them  unharmed,  and  they  left 
their  stain  upon  me  in  your  mind.  Can  you  forget  it  in 
so  far  as  to  give  me  your  friendship,  Wilma?" 

"I  have  never  withdrawn  my  friendship  from  you," 
she  said,  sinking  down  in  her  chair  and  feeling  the 
dreariness  of  reaction  from  a  long-deferred  hope  at  last 
fulfilled. 

When  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  a  reality  about 
which  we  have  had  inspired  dreams,  there  is  always  a  dis- 
parity which  shocks  more  or  less.  A  broad  charity,  such 
as  Christ  displayed  upon  the  cross,  would  bid  us  drop  its 
mantle  over  even  the  atrocious  Jews  crying  "  Crucify 
him!  Crucify  him!"  when  we  remember  what  a  hard 
thing  it  would  be  to  bring  an  ideal  religious  faith  down 
from  the  very  heavens  and  fasten  it  upon  a  man, — one  of 
ourselves,  and  very  near  to  us  through  poverty  and  lowli- 
ness of  station. 


35  8  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Miss  Stuvysant,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  actual  face 
whose  glorified  memory  had  been  her  guiding-star,  sat 
stupefied  with  one  mighty  consciousness ;  the  grand  cli- 
max of  years  had  come,  the  sublimest  moment  she  would 
ever  know  was  passing.  She  felt  that  this  meeting,  which 
she  would  have  deferred  yet  many  years,  was  the  closing 
act  in  the  exquisite  drama  that  had  united  their  two  lives. 
She  looked,  with  a  shudder  and  sickened  heart,  beyond 
into  the  blank,  blank  years  that  would  follow  upon  this 
wild  night,  with  no  light  in  the  distant  horizon.  And 
yet,  was  it  possible  that  the  dream  upon  which  she  had 
fed  her  life  until  it  grew  and  widened  and  blossomed,  had 
its  reality  in  this  man?  She  had  placed  him  so  high,  and 
she  had  climbed  so  unweariedly  to  reach  him,  that  now 
her  eyes  examined  him  with  a  sharp  criticism,  to  find 
whether  she  had  been  deceived.  What  they  saw  in  the 
first  eager  exploration  was  a  form  more  slender  than  of 
old,  a  whitish  face  much  worn,  hair  a  little  thinned  at  the 
temples  and  turning  gray,  and  a  mouth  with  a  kind  of 
settled  irony.  The  eyes  had  their  old  intensity  of  expres- 
sion, but  the  radiance  of  youthful  hope  and  inspiration 
was  gone.  It  is  not  strange  that  in  the  first  moments  her 
heart  sickened  with  a  terrible  disappointment,  and  a  dread 
that  she  had  lived  in  a  delusion.  Charles  Burns  had  al- 
most ceased  to  be  a  tangible  being  to  her.  Her  love  for 
him  had  widened  into  a  religion.  She  had  worshipped 
him  in  all  the  beautiful  and  noble  things  her  eye  and  mind 
could  grasp.  Her  very  life,  strongly  rooted  in  the  good 
and  true,  had  grown  out  of  him. 

Mr.  Burns  had  no  such  intense  consciousness  as  hers ; 
the  difference  between  them  was  this,  that-  she  was  still 
living  in  the  dream  he  had  awakened  from.  His  chief 
thought  was,  as  he  contemplated  her  with  eye  and  mind, 
"  Thank  God,  I  have  not  ruined  her  life ;  she  has  made  a 
noble  woman  of  herself." 

He  had  proposed  that  they  sit  down  and  talk.  But  an 
awkward  silence  fell  upon  him  which  he  could  not  break. 
She  was  not  embarrassed  ;  the  consequences  to  herself — 
to  her  inmost  life — that  would  follow  this  meeting  ab- 
sorbed her  completely.  The  spell  under  which  she  had 
lived  a  sad  yet  half-enchanted  life  all  these  years  was 


HIGH-  WA  TE  R-MARK.  3S  9 

broken  by  his  actual  presence,  and  it  mattered  little 
whether  they  talked  or  not. 

But  two  people,  whatever  their  relations,  cannot  sit  and 
look  at  each  other  in  silence  many  seconds.  The  wind 
was  beginning  to  rattle  the  shutters  and  drive  the  frozen 
rain  against  the  window-panes.  Mr.  Burns  got  up  and 
walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and  stood  looking  out  a 
moment  and  then  came  back. 

"It  is  strange  I  never  thought  of  its  being  you,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  that  your  real  name  was  Stuvysant,  of 
course,  and  yet  it  never  came  into  my  mind  that  the  Miss 
Stuvysant  I  read  about  might  be  you.  You  took  it  when 
you  began  your  readings?" 

"  No,"  she  returned  ;  "I  took  it  after  the  death  of  my 
mother  and  sister,  and  when  I  went  back  to  my  father's 
relatives;  or,  rather,  they  gave  it  to  me." 

"I  was  shocked  when  I  heard  of  the  death  of  your 
mother  and  little  Blanche,"  said  he. 

"And  Fred,  too,  is  dead.  He  was  killed  near  Vicks- 
burg,"  she  returned. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  more  to  say.  Each  realized 
that  though  they  had  come  very  near  to  each  other  in  the 
first  instant  of  Mr.  Burns's  recognition,  the  rebound  from 
the  shock  was  sending  them  farther  and  farther  apart  every 
moment. 

"What  will  be  the  end  of  this?"  Mr.  Burns  thought. 

Miss  Cleveland  opened  the  door  and  came  in  ;  before 
she  had  time  to  close  it,  the  outer  hall-door  blew  open 
violently,  letting  in  a  hurricane  of  wind  and  fine  snow 
and  sleet,  slamming  other  doors  and  arousing  the  deacon 
and  his  wife  to  come  and  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  What  a  terrible  night,"  said  Miss  Cleveland,  as  they 
all  started  toward  the  hall. 

"It  suggests  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Burns,  after  he  had 
helped  the  deacon  to  close  and  secure  the  door,  "  that  I 
had  better  take  my  departure.  I  did  not  dream  of  its 
storming  so." 

He  tossed  back  his  chair  with  a  gesture  that  Wilma  well 
remembered,  and  took  down  his  great-coat. 

"Oh,  you  can  never  face  such  a  storm  as  this,"  inter- 
posed Mrs.  Clyde.  "  We  will  give  you  a  bed  here.  The 


360  HIGH  WATER-MARK. 

girls  are  not  at  home ;  they  went  out  to  spend  the  after- 
noon and  did  not  get  back;  we  have  plenty  of  room  for 
you." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Clyde,"  he  returned.  "I 
am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  but  I  cannot  stay.  The  fact 
is,  I  don't  like  to  miss  the  chance  of  a  battle  with  this 
wind.  A  storm  arouses  all  the  combativeness  in  me, 
which  is  a  good  thing  occasionally.  I  remember  it  used 
to  be  my  great  delight  when  a  boy  to  get  out  and  confront 
old  Boreas  in  his  grand  high  moods." 

The  sight  of  Wilma  recalled  it  to  him.  She  stood  a 
little  behind  the  others  in  the  doorway,  in  order  to  appear 
interested  in  what,  for  the  moment,  was  a  thing  of  para- 
mount importance,  while  he  buttoned  his  coat  and  drew 
on  his  gloves.  He  glanced  at  her  with  his  old-time  smile, 
and  she  inclined  her  head  and  then  stepped  back  into  the 
room. 

After  all,  what  a  commonplace  meeting  it  was ;  the 
naturalness  of  it  seemed  to  rob  the  past  of  all  its  romance 
and  mock  the  strong  tension  of  her  life.  What  a  dreamer 
she  had  been  ! 

"Well,  if  you  must  go,"  Mrs.  Clyde  said,  "father  had 
better  take  you  out  the  back  way.  If  we  open  this  door 
again  we  shall  have  another  hurricane." 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"I  am  sorry  your  visit  is  cut  off  so  short,"  said  Miss 
Cleveland.  "  But  you  must  come  again  when  the  weather 
settles." 

"Thank  you,  I  certainly  shall,"  he  returned. 

The  deacon  took  him  out  through  the  kitchen  and  held 
a  light  against  the  window,  so  that  he  could  find  his  way 
to  the  gate.  He  had  a  hard  fight,  but  it  was  good  for  him 
as  he  had  said.  Mr.  Courtenay  opened  the  door  and  let 
him  in,  with  the  snow  all  beaten  into  him  and  frozen  in 
his  hair. 

"Heavens,  what  a  night  it  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
had  no  idea  it  had  grown  so  cold.  I  think  my  ears  are 
frostbitten." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay,  deliber- 
ately, "that  a  fellow  who  would  venture  out  such  a  night 
as  this  deserves  some  such  chastisement,  especially  if  he 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  3  6 1 

does  not  try  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the  gods  by  tying  up 
his  ears." 

"The  wrath  of  the  gods,"  returned  Mr.  Burns,  "is 
usually  appeased  by  the  precaution  of  men  !  But  I  have 
always  had  a  prejudice  against  tying  up  my  ears." 

He  took  off  his  great-coat  and  shook  the  little  icicles 
from  his  hair  and  seated  himself  by  the  fire. 

It  continued  to  storm  through  the  night,  but  in  the 
morning  the  wind  dropped  down,  though  it  was  extremely 
cold.  The  snow  was  piled  up  along  the  sidewalks  like 
fine,  sifted  flour.  The  more  Mr.  Burns  thought  of  his 
meeting  with  Wilmingard,  the  more  excited  and  inter- 
ested he  grew.  He  had  not  been  shaken  as  she  had  been. 
There  was  no  very  deep  feeling  lying  in  his  heart  to  be 
rudely  awakened  ;  only  a  painful  regret  that  he  had  once 
wounded  her.  And  her  manner  seemed  to  show  that, 
though  she  had  felt  it  deeply,  she  cherished  no  hardness 
against  him. 

"Some  women,"  he  thought,  "would  have  met  me 
with  a  proud,  assumed  coldness  or  smiling  indifference ; 
but  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  affectation  in  her.  She 
assumes  nothing ;  she  ignores  nothing.  The  wreck  that 
I  have  made  of  our  young  loves  lies  before  us,  and  she 
neither  appeals  to  me  nor  reproaches  me.  She  does  not 
seem  to  see  in  me  the  cause  of  her  suffering, — for  I  can  see 
that  she  has  suffered.  She  has  accepted  her  share  of  the 
world's  sorrows  without  complaint  against  the  instruments 
of  her  torture.  What  a  grand  charity  is  that !  I  fancy 
she  neither  despises  all  men  because  of  me,  nor  sees  an 
exceptional  monster  in  me.  However  one  might  wrong 
her,  I  believe  she  could  still  give  him  credit  for  all  the 
good  there  was  in  him.  Poor  Wilma  !"  he  apostrophized, 
"she  has  gone  through  an  ordeal  such  as  has  burned  the 
life  out  of  many  a  heart.  And  -she  stands  strong  and 
delicate  and  self-poised  and  womanly." 

Even  in  the  short  time  they  had  been  together  his  mind 
had  taken  many  impressions  of  her  which  his  memory, 
dwelling  upon,  brought  out  and  defined  as  clearly  as 
stereoscopic  views,  though  perhaps  many  of  them  had 
long  ago  been  unconsciously  imprinted  on  the  palimpsest 
of  his  boyish  appreciation  of  her,  and  brightened  now  in 
Q  3' 


362  HIGH-  WATER-MARK. 

the  light  of  his  manhood's  discernment.  However  it 
might  be,  he  began  to  realize,  with  very  little  present 
acquaintance,  the  perfectness  of  womanhood  in  her.  He 
grew  impatient  of  another  meeting,  and  yet  felt  some 
delicacy  about  forcing  it  upon  her. 

"  She  would  have  gone  on  her  way  without  letting  me 
know,"  he  said  ;  "  and  yet,  under  the  circumstances,  how 
could  she  do  otherwise?" 

So  he  took  his  resolve  and  planned  to  see  her  again. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

FOR  two  or  three  days  it  continued  very  cold  ;  so  bit- 
terly cold  that  people  did  not  leave  their  firesides  except 
from  absolute  necessity,  and  the  consciences  of  those  who 
held  constant  activity  to  be  a  duty  could  offer  no  reproach 
for  idleness.  There  are  occasional  times  in  the  lives  of 
us  all  when  some  strong  power  outside  of  us  takes  things 
in  its  own  hands  and  eases  us,  momentarily,  of  our  accus- 
tomed burdens.  It  may  even  be  a  suffering  and  a  loss  to 
us,  but  the  loosening  of  the  tension  of  our  lives  gives  us 
rest. 

One  day,  quite  late  in  the  afternoon,  a  sleigh,  with 
bells,  dashed  up  to  the  office-door,  and  a  man,  hidden  in 
buffalo-wrappings,  sprang  out  and  knocked  loudly  with 
the  handle  of  his  whip.  Mr.  Burns  hastened  to  open  the 
door,  and  the  man  stepped  in  and  undid  the  strings  of 
his  cap  and  took  it  off,  and  they  recognized  him  as  Mr. 
Rosevelt's  hired  man. 

"There's  been  awful  doings  up  to  our  place,"  he  said, 
hurriedly,  "  and  I  have  come  to  get  Mr.  Courtenay  to  go 
up.  Mrs.  Rosevelt,  she  sent  me.  That  crazy  sister  o' 
hern  tried  to  commit  suicide;  an'  Mr.  Rosevelt  interfered, 
an'  she  shot  him,  an'  it's  doubtful  if  he's  livin'  by  this 
time.  But  if  he  is  he  wants  to  make  his  will ;  an'  if  she 
is  she  wants  to  make  hern,  too,  I  reckon  ;  anyway,  she 
keeps  commandin'  them  to  send  for  Mr.  Courtenay." 


HIGH-WATER-MARK.  363 

Mr.  Burns  glanced  covertly  at  his  friend,  and  saw  his 
face  blanch  to  marble  whiteness. 

"  I've  got  to  take  the  doctor  with  me,"  the  man  con- 
tinued. "  They  said  you  would  most  likely  want  to  drive 
your  own  horse.  Could  you  be  ready  to  go  right  off?" 

Mr.  Courtenay  roused  himself. 

"Will  you  go  with  me,  Charley?"  he  asked,  with  an 
appealing  look  in  his  eyes  that  seemed  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  craving  for  sympathy  Mr.  Burns  had  ever  seen 
there.  His  voice,  too,  faltered  a  little,  and  his  hands 
trembled. 

"  Certainly  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  But 
it  is  just  supper-time ;  hadn't  we  better  go  down  to  supper 
first  ?  And  I  will  get  Fred  to  harness  Nobby  and  bring 
him  around  while  we  drink  a  cup  of  tea." 

"Perhaps  so,"  Burr  assented. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  man,  tying  on  his  cap  again, 
"I'll  drive  on;  you  know  the  way  an'  can  start  as  soon 
as  you're  ready.  The  doctor's  waiting." 

They  got  ready,  speedily,  and  went  down  to  supper; 
but  owing  to  some  delay  on  Fred's  part  they  were  not 
able  to  leave  town  for  nearly  an  hour  after  the  messenger 
had  gone. 

The  sun  was  going  down  with  a  red  and  yellow  glare, 
seen  dimly  through  clouds  of  fine-sifted  snow.  The  wind 
had  risen,  and  it  seemed  to  be  growing  colder.  Nobby 
floundered  through  deep  drifts  and  galloped  over  patches 
of  hard,  rough  ground  that  the  wind  had  bared  of  snow. 

"It'will  be  a  fearful  ride,"  thought  Mr.  Burns. 

After  they  had  got  out  of  town  a  little  way,  and  were 
driving  along  a  lane  somewhat  sheltered  from  the  wind, 
Mr.  Courtenay  said,  "Charley,  this  is  a  wretched  time  to 
tell  a  story,  but  I  wish  to  give  you  a  few  facts  of  a  narra- 
tive which  I  will  fill  out  hereafter  in  detail.  I  was  once 
married  to  this  woman  whom  we  are  going  to  see ;  it  was 
a  clandestine  marriage  contracted  when  we  were  at  school, 
a  sort  of  Gretna-Green  affair.  I  was  barely  eighteen,  and 
she  not  quite  so  old.  She  had  a  terrible  temper,  and 
mine,  though  not  so  demonstrative,  was  equally  fierce. 
We  quarrelled  one  day,  and  she  ran  away  from  me  and 
went  home  and  told  her  parents.  They  were  greatly  en- 


364  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

raged  and  forbade  my  ever  seeing  her  again,  which, 
indeed,  I  had  no  desire  to  do.  They  took  her  to  Europe 
and  travelled  for  a  year  or  two  and  then  came  back,  and, 
after  a  time,  took  pains  to  let  me  know  they  had  procured 
a  divorce,  which  was  false.  She — Laura  Wallihan  was 
her  name — would  not  give  me  up,  but  has  always  seemed 
to  think  she  had  a  wife's  claim  upon  me.  I  have  been 
evading  her  for  eighteen  years.  She  came  upon  me  once, 
away  down  in  Florida,  when  I  was  on  the  eve  of  marrying 
again, — supposing  I  was  free  of  her.  She  broke  the 
heart  of  the  woman  I  was  to  marry, — the  sweetest,  proud- 
est, most  sensitive  and  delicate  creature  I  ever  knew, — 
and  poisoned  her  mind  against  me.  She  died — I  will  tell 
you  where — at  Crawford  Academy.  Your  little  friend, 
Wilma  Lynne,  was  her  guardian  angel,  and  loved  her  and 
cared  for  her  to  the  last  moment  of  her  life,  and  was  the 
one  mourner  who  followed  her  to  the  grave  ;  though  I, 
myself,  was  there,  concealed  in  the  thick  shrubbery  of 
the  cemetery." 

He  paused  a  moment  or  two,  for  the  wind,  sweeping 
fiercely  across  the  prairie,  seemed  to  have  taken  away  his 
breath.  Then  he  resumed.  "  I  used  to  have  lofty  aspira- 
tions. I  wanted  my  name  to  ring  round  the  world.  At 
one  time,  when  I  was  very  young,  I  hesitated  between  the 
two  splendors  of  being  a  great  actor  and  a  great  statesman. 
Patriotism  triumphed,  and  I  fixed  my  mark  to  become 
another  Daniel  Webster.  But  all  that  changed.  Emer- 
son says, — does  he  not  ? — '  That  whatever  we  strongly  wish 
will  surely  come  to  us.'  I  believe  the  contrary ;  whatever 
we  feel  a  strong  aversion  to,  we  will,  in  time,  embrace. 
That  was  my  case.  From  wishing  for  fame  I  went  to  the 
opposite  extreme,  and  exerted  all  the  ingenuity  I  possessed 
to  hide  both  myself  and  my  name.  That  has  not  been 
difficult  since  the  war.  I,  in  my  turn,  employed  a  lie  to 
aid  me.  I  contrived  to  have  Laura  informed  that  I  was 
killed  in  battle.  And  she  partly  believed  it  until  the 
other  day  when  we  were  summoned  on  that  cursed  law- 
suit." 

He  paused  again,  and  Mr.  Burns  said,  in  tones  of  deep 
sympathy  and  sorrow,  "  Then  she  is  still  your  lawful 
wife?" 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  365 

"She  is  still  my  lawful  wife,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay. 
"  Since  I  saw  her,  I  have  been  meditating  flight  again, 
and  debating  in  my  mind  whether  I  should  ask  you  to 
accompany  me.  Charley,  my  boy,  you  have  been  the 
brightness  and  the  strength  of  my  life  for  seven  years.  I 
dare  say  you  have  thought  sometimes  you  were  leaning  on 
me,  but  it  was  the  other  way." 

They  drove  on  for  many  minutes  without  speaking  again. 
Mr.  Burns's  heart  was  torn  with  the  strongest  emotions : 
pain,  grief,  self-reproach,  and  unbounded  veneration  for 
the  brave  soul  that  had  carried  its  dreadful  burden  so 
long  and  borne  it  so  well  ;  that  scarcely  even  now  com- 
plained. The  wind  rose  higher  and  higher  until  it  fairly 
shrieked,  and  the  fine  snow  drove  fiercely  against  them, 
and  night  was  closing  in.  Mr.  Burns  stood  up  and  tried 
to  peer  ahead  into  the  gathering  darkness. 

"  My  God  !  Burr,  I  believe  we're  off  the  road.  Whoa, 
Nobby."  Nobby  was  glad  enough  to  come  to  a  halt. 
There  was  no  house  in  sight ;  no  light,  no  tree,  nor  any- 
thing but  the  broad,  white  plain,  with  waves  of  wind  and 
snow  sweeping  over  it.  Nobby,  in  trying  to  evade  the 
wind,  had  veered  constantly  to  the  right,  and  so  lost  the 
road. 

"Do  you  not  think  we  had  better  turn  back?"  Mr. 
Burns  asked.  "  We  shall  never  be  able  to  get  through." 

"Yes,  let  us  turn  back,"  said  Burr.  "This  is  damn- 
able !  Nobby  will  surely  find  the  way  home." 

So  they  turned  him  about,  and  rode  on,  and  on,  and 
on.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  last  forever.  A  horrible  fear 
crept  into  Mr.  Burns's  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  he  was 
being  hardened  into  a  marble  figure. 

"  Burr,  this  is  terrible  !"  he  said. 

Burr,  upright  and  immovable,  answered  in  a  muffled 
monosyllable. 

Some  minutes  passed. 

"  Burr,  are  you  very  cold  ?" 

"  No;  but  I  am  numb,  I  can't  move.  I  think  we  are 
going  to  perish  here,  Charley."  The  words  came  thick 
and  at  little  intervals. 

"Oh,  no,  Burr;  not  so  bad  as  that.  Not  on  this 
bleak,  wild  prairie,  with  no  house  in  sight." 


3  66  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

On,  Nobby,  with  white  fetlocks  and  foaming  nostrils ; 
snorting,  plunging,  on,  and  on,  and  on. 

"Burr?" 

No  answer. 

11  Burr  !"  with  a  little  shake. 

A  muffled  response. 

"Are  you  freezing,  Burr?" 

Mr.  Burns's  voice  sounded  strange  and  weird,  even  to 
himself,  pitched  in  a  high  key  to  penetrate  Burr's  dulled 
ear,  and  caught  up  by  the  wind,  and  borne  off  shrieking. 

"  Burr,  are  you  very  cold  ?" 

"No — not — cold,"  answered  Burr,  with  slow,  difficult 
enunciation. 

Mr.  Burns,  with  his  own  numbed  hands,  tried  to  tuck 
the  robes  closer  around  him.  Nobby  embraced  the  op- 
portunity of  slackened  rein  to  turn  out  of  the  road, — for, 
at  last,  they  had  struck  it  again, — and  the  sleigh,  striking 
a  prairie-boulder,  upset,  and  something  snapped.  Nobby, 
frightened,  broke  loose,  and  in  a  moment  was  out  of  sight 
and  hearing,  in  the  darkness  and  the  roar.  Mr.  Burns 
got  up  clumsily  and  tried  to  right  the  sleigh.  Burr,  also 
aroused  by  the  shock,  staggered  to  his  feet,  but  sank  back 
upon  the  ground. 

"Burr,  in  the  name  of  God,  what  are  we  to  do?  Can 
you  walk?" 

"  No,  I  think  not,  Charley.     I — I"  his  voice  stopped. 

"We  are  not  far  from  home,  Burr;  not  above  half  a 
mile,  I  think.  Come,  get  up,  and  let  us  try." 

No  answer. 

"Burr,  let's  try  to  get  to  town;  we'll  perish  if  we 
don't  move  on,  Burr."  He  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"  I — I'm  quite  comfortable  now,  Charley.  I  can  sleep 
here  very  well." 

Burr's  consciousness  was  almost  gone.  He  spoke  like 
one  who  was  politely  declining  a  favor. 

"  You  are  freezing,  Burr  !"  shrieked  Mr.  Burns.  "  Here 
is  my  hand,  pull  !" 

"I — I  can't,  Charley.     You  go.     Go,  and  get  home." 

"And  leave  you  here  to  perish?  Burr  Courtenay,  I 
will  lie  down  here  and  we'll  die  together  if  you  don't 
make  an  effort  to  get  up." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  36  7 

The  severe  tone  aroused  Burr's  dull  faculties.  With 
Mr.  Burns's  help  he  staggered  to  his  feet  again,  but 
offered  no  resistance  to  the  mighty  wind.  Mr.  Burns 
upheld  and  steadied  him ;  forced  him  forward  a  step  ; 
another  step,  and  then  he  faltered  and  sank  down  again, 
his  limbs  too  stiff  and  numb  to  support  him.  Mr.  Burns 
groaned. 

"  It's  no  use,  Charley.     Don't  mind  me, — go." 

"Go,  and  leave  you,  Burr,  to  die  alone?  Good  God! 
do  you  think  I  would  forsake  you  now?" 

"For  help,  Charley,"  came  almost  unintelligibly  from 
Burr's  lips,  and  then,  oblivious  of  the  cold,  he  nestled 
closer  to  the  ground,  like  a  sleepy  child,  and  the  snow 
drifted  over  him.  No  effort  of  Mr.  Burns  could  arouse 
him  again. 

"  He  is  right !"  he  said,  seeing  a  gleam  of  hope.  "  I 
could  never  get  him  home  against  this  wind, — God  knows 
if  I -can  get  there  myself!  But  I'll  try;  I  may  save  him 
yet." 

His  whole  soul  went  out  in  a  strong   prayer,   "  GOD 

GRANT  IT  !" 

As  quickly  and  dexterously  as  he  could  with  his  be- 
numbed fingers,  he  seized  the  robes  and  blanket  from  the 
sleigh  and  flung  them  over  Burr,  tucking  them  closely  in 
around  him,  and  then,  bracing  his  slender  form  against 
the  fearful  storm,  he  started  forward,  pressing  on  step  by 
step,  sustained  by  the  strong  hope  of  saving  Burr.  The 
cape  of  his  blue  cloak,  which  he  sometimes  flung  on  over 
his  great-coat,  flapped  wildly  about  him.  He  gathered  it 
over  his  head,  and  with  his  chin  bent  in  upon  his  breast, 
kept  his  breath  in  the  face  of  the  wind. 


368  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE  landlord  of  the  hotel,  together  with  Fred  and 
Dick  Gibson,  several  boarders,  including  Dr.  Webster, 
several  loafers  and  two  storm-stayed  travellers,  sat  around 
the  bar-room  stove,  which  was  kept  constantly  red-hot. 

"  Hear  it !  it  sounds  like  the  disembodied  spirits  of  the 
accursed,"  said  one  of  the  travellers  to  the  other,  not  pro- 
fanely, but  in  a  kind  of  listening  awe. 

They  were  Eastern  men,  and  this  was  their  first  experi- 
ence of  a  prairie  "blizzard." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  responsive.  "What  is  it  that 
gives  to  the  elements  such  unearthly  voices  ?  Were  you 
ever  at  sea  in  a  storm?" 

His  friend  shook  his  head. 

"  Well ;  this  is  something  like  it ;  the  creaking,  and 
snapping,  and  roaring.  It  would  seem  that  a  thousand 
demon  maniacs  were  careering  upon  the  wind,  laughing, 
cursing,  screaming,  and  battling  with  each  other.  There  is 
a  weird  poem  running  in  my  mind  ;"  and  the  imaginative 
traveller  began  repeating  it : 

"  On  such  fearful  nights  as  this,  'tis  said, 
That  vaulted  tombs  give  up  their  dead ; 
That  hideous  spectres,  ghastly  and  grim, 
Steal  stealthily  round  in  the  firelight  dim ; 
And  demon  birds,  borne  on  wind  and  rain, 
Flap  their  black  wings  'gainst  the  window-pane." 

"  One  might  easily  be  persuaded  to  believe  that,  to- 
night," said  the  other,  with  a  shrug.  "  That  wind  would 
certainly  be  uncanny  if  we  were  not  surrounded  by  these 
jolly  fellows,  whose  scepticism  banishes  ghostly  delu- 
sions." 

The  "jolly  fellows"  had  been,  one  after  another,  tell- 
ing ludicrous  stories  to  hold  up  superstition  to  ridicule. 
But  as  the  traveller,  with  thrilling  effect,  repeated  his  weird 
lines,  they  paused  and  listened,  with  cold  chills  creeping 
over  them  and  hair  bristling  on  end.  Fred,  especially, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  369 

with  open  mouth  and  wide-stretched  eyes,  felt  his  knees 
shake. 

For  a  moment  or  two  everybody  was  silent.  Then 
came  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  door  outside.  The  travellers 
sprang  to  their  feet ;  the  landlord  paused  in  the  act  of 
poking  the  fire  ;  Fred  rolled  over  on  the  floor,  and  Dick 
Gibson,  with  Dr.  Webster  to  help  him  draw  the  bolts, 
opened  the  door.  The  others,  not  less  startled,  sat  still 
and  expectant.  Something  fell  forward  ;  a  man  wrapped 
in  a  dark-blue  cloak.  Every  one  in  the  room  sprang  to- 
ward him,  and  half  a  dozen  voices  exclaimed,  "  Lawyer 
Burns!" 

They  lifted  him  up  and  laid  him  on  a  wide,  wooden 
settee. 

"Burr,"  he  gasped.  "Go  for  Burr.  He  is  freezing, 
dying!" 

"Where!"  they  all  cried. 

"Out  past  Jenkins's  place.  Only  a  little  way.  Be 
quick !  quick  !" 

The  struggling  voice  ceased  and  the  swollen  eyelids 
closed.  A  little  while  longer,  and  Mr.  Burns  could  not 
have  told  his  errand. 

In  a  moment  or  two  all  had  started  out  to  look  for  Burr 
excepting  the  landlord,  the  two  travellers,  and  Dr.  Web- 
ster, who  were  tacitly  left  to  take  care  of  the  motionless 
figure  on  the  settee,  whose  garments  were  already  begin- 
ning to  drip  with  melted  snow. 

"We  must  remove  him  from  this  room  at  once,"  said 
Dr.  Webster,  who  immediately  became  the  recognized 
authority.  "  The  stove  is  red-hot,  you  see.  He  must  be 
got  to  bed.  Here,  help  me  take  off  his  boots  and  these 
outside  wrappings." 

The  travellers  sprang  to  his  assistance. 

"  There's  a  bed  in  the  sitting-room,"  said  the  landlord  ; 
"we'll  take  him  in  there." 

He  opened  the  intervening  doors  and  cleared  a  passage, 
and  they  lifted  him  up  and  bore  him  through. 

"  He  wasn't  much  to  carry,"  said  one  of  the  travellers 
when  they  had  laid  him  upon  the  bed.  "  I  don't  see  how 
he  stood  up  against  this  wind." 

"He  has  got  pluck!"  said  the  landlord.  "A  good 
Q* 


370  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

deal  more  than  the  other  one  has  ;  though  the  other  one's 
twice  as  strong." 

"He  has  escaped  freezing,  marvellously,"  announced 
Dr.  Webster.  "  His  hands  and  feet  are  frozen,  but  other- 
wise he  is  only  benumbed  and  exhausted.  He  is  sleeping 
heavily,  you  see ;  he  will  lie  so  for  hours.  In  the  mean 
time  we  must  bathe  his  hands  and  feet  in  cold  water." 

The  landlord  hastened  to  bring  it,  and  they  all  set  to 
work. 

Meanwhile,  a  sled  had  been  got  ready  with  incredible 
despatch,  and  half  a  dozen  men  sprang  into  it  and  urged 
the  horses  forward  through  the  drifts  and  blinding  snow. 
They  drove  some  distance,  and  then  descrying  the  lights 
of  the  Jenkins's  windows — for  it  was  Sarah  Jenkins's  wed- 
ding night,  and  in  every  room  lamps  were  glimmering — 
a  man,  with  a  lantern  carefully  protected  by  an  old  blanket 
he  wore  around  him,  got  out  and  went  on  ahead.  Pres- 
ently he  stopped  and  threw  the  light  forward.  It  fell  on 
the  overturned  sleigh.  All  the  others  sprang  out  then 
and  ran  on  except  the  driver. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  of  him  !"  shouted  the  man  with 
the  lantern,  above  the  wind.  The  sleigh  was  empty  and 
all  was  white  around  it. 

"  Yonder  !"  cried  another.  "  There's  something  flap- 
ping." 

He  pressed  forward  and  seized  it.  It  was  a  tag  of  buf- 
falo skin.  In  a  moment  all  hands  were  pulling  at  it. 
Underneath  lay  Burr.  The  light  of  the  lantern  flashed 
in  his  face.  It  was  white  as  the  white  snow  around  it. 
Some  one  stooped  and  laid  his  hand  upon  it.  It  was  like 
marble.  He  touched  the  forehead,  eyelids,  cheek ;  drew 
off  one  fur  glove  and  clasped  the  stiffened  fingers,  then 
looked  up,  awe-struck,  into  the  others'  faces. 

They  did  not  take  him  up  at  once ;  they  gathered  in  a 
little  circle  around  him  as  if,  instinctively,  to  protect  him 
from  the  fierce  storm,  and  looked  down  upon  him,  silent 
and  speechless.  Not  one  of  them  but  would  have  risked 
his  life  to  save  him.  He  had  shone  like  a  brilliant  star 
among  them  and  they  had  worshipped  him.  They  had 
been  wont  to  boast  of  him ;  to  think  that  whatever  ad- 
vantages other  towns  might  have,  they  had  no  kingly 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


371 


Courtenay.  But  their  strong  arms  and  their  warm  sym- 
pathies availed  nothing  now.  The  man  with  the  lantern 
turned  away  ajid  motioned  to  the  driver  to  come  nearer. 
They  had  hastily  thrown  some  straw  into  the  sled-box. 
Some  one  spread  it  out  and  tried  to  keep  the  wind  from 
blowing  it  away.  Others  raised  him  up  and  carried  him 
and  laid  him  down  upon  it,  and  brought  the  robes  and 
blanket  and  spread  over  him  reverently,  but  did  not  tuck 
them  in  as  Charley  had  done;  there  was  no  need.  Then 
they  drove  on,  and  the  pitiless,  cold  wind  blew  over  him. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

IT  was  morning  and  the  sun  shone.  It  was  cold,  but 
marvellously  calm,  as  if  he  who  once  hushed  the  winds 
had  spread  out  his  hands  again  and  said,  "Peace:  be 
still." 

"Burr?  Where's  Burr ?"  Mr.  Burns,  starting  up  with 
the  familiar  name  on  his  lips,  looked  around  upon  the 
strange  walls. 

Dr.  Webster  was  at  his  bedside.  "  How  do  you  feel 
this  morning,  Mr.  Burns,  after  your  accident?"  he  asked, 
with  attempted  lightness,  as  if  the  upsetting  of  the  sleigh 
and  necessitated  walking  home  were  the  only  things  to 
be  remembered  or  regretted. 

"  Where's  Burr  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Burns,  with  rising 
impatience  and  contracting  eyebrows,  like  a  child  whose 
question  had  been  set  aside. 

"He  is  up-stairs,"  said  the  doctor,  and  added,  with 
professional  gravity  and  authority,  "I  would  advise  you, 
Mr.  Burns,  not  to  worry  or  excite  yourself  much.  You 
were  quite  chilled  when  you  got  home  last  night,  and  I 
have  some  dread  of  fever  after  the — the  exposure." 

"  What  did  they  take  him  up-stairs  for  ?  Wasn't  this  bed 
wide  enough  for  us  both  ?"  Mr.  Burns  returned.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  not  now  bear  even  temporary  sep- 
aration from  his  friend.  Burr's  story  had  come  back  to 


372 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


him  with  his  first  awakening,  and  brought  the  same  pain 
and  tender  sympathy  he  had  felt  when  it  was  related. 

"Burr  must  be  worse  off  than  I  am,"  he  added;  "he 
was  out  longer,  though  I  covered  him  up  with  the  robes 
and  came  on  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  sent  the  men.  They 
found  him — didn't  you  say  they  found  him  ?"  turning  upon 
the  doctor  with  fierce  inquiry,  as  a  horrible  misgiving 
occurred  to  him. 

"Yes;  they  found  him  a  short  distance  from  town," 
the  doctor  returned,  though  he  quailed  a  little  under  the 
intensely  questioning  gaze. 

"  Thank  God  !"  Mr.  Burns  lay  back  upon  the  pillow 
restfully,  and  seemed  at  last  satisfied.  By  and  by  he 
said,  with  his  face  averted  and  speaking  partly  to  himself, 
"You  have- no  idea  what  a  terrible  storm  it  was.  I 
thought  we  should  perish.  Burr  thought  so,  too ;  only  I 
could  not  give  up  to  die  there;  it  was  too  horrible." 

A  shudder  passed  over  him. 

"  I  think  I  will  get  up  now,  doctor.  My  hands  feel 
queerly — and  my  feet,  too.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  walk." 

He  had  put  his  feet  out  on  the  floor. 

"  Were  they  much  frozen?" 

"  Yes ;  quite  badly,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Here  are  some 
large  slippers  for  you  to  put  on  ;  they  are  the  landlord's." 

"Large?  I  should  think  they  were,"  said  Mr.  Burns, 
with  a  laugh,  as  he  slipped  his  feet  into  them.  "But  I 
can  walk  better  in  them  than  in  my  stocking-feet.  Now, 
if  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  what  room  Mr. 
Courtenay  is  in,  doctor, — or  show  me  the  way, — I  will  go 
up  and  see  him." 

Dressed  and  standing  upon  his  feet,  Mr.  Burns  recovered 
the  air  of  dignity  and  reserve  he  habitually  preserved  in 
the  presence  of  strangers.  The  doctor  hesitated.  Mr. 
Burns,  in  some  surprise,  glanced  up. 

"  Good  God  !  he  is  not  dead  I" 

The  doctor  answered  by  a  look :  Dead. 

After  a  time  he  led  the  way  up  into  the  long,  dim  par- 
lor. Is  that  Burr?  that  long,  draped  form  lying  there  so 
still  ?  Is  it  Burr's  presence  that  fills  the  room  with  such 
an  awe  and  majesty  ?  The  doctor  went  forward  with 
noiseless  tread  and  folded  back  the  sheets,  and  Mr.  Burns 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  373 

stood  and  gazed  upon  the  one  face  that  he  loved.  It  was 
white  and  beautifully  chiselled  as  the  finest  marble  face ; 
the  forehead  broad  and  smooth,  the  arched,  black  brows 
exquisitely  pencilled,  the  long  lashes  sweeping  the  cheeks, 
and  the  glossy,  wavy  beard  flowing  down  upon  the  chest. 
But  the  grand  intellect  beneath  was  forever  stilled. 

Some  one  had  carefully  brushed  back  the  black  masses 
of  hair;  there  were  more  white  threads  mingled  with  it 
than  Mr.  Burns  had  thought ;  a  few,  too,  in  the  glossy 
beard  that  he  had  never  noticed  before.  He  took  up  one 
of  the  exquisitely-shaped  hands  and  knelt  down,  pressing 
it  against  his  heart. 

"Oh,  my  friend,  my  Burr!"  he  cried.  "Can  it  be 
that  you  are  dead  ?  Would  to  God  that  I  had  perished 
with  you  !" 

He  dropped  his  head  upon  the  pulseless  body,  and  so 
remained  for  many  minutes,  groaning  aloud.  Then  he 
arose,  and  laid  tfie  dead  hand  gently  down  and  turned 
and  grasped  the  doctor's  living  hand,  his  eyes  strangely 
bright. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  Dr.  Webster,"  said  he,  "can  any 
intelligence  upon  this  earth  reveal  to  me  the  knowledge 
of  where  my  friend  is  now  ?  There  lies  the  immaculate 
form  of  Burr  Courtenay!  but  where,  in  this  vast  uni- 
verse, is  the  immaculate  soul?  Shall  I  ever  find  it  again? 
You  did  not  know  him,  Dr.  Webster,"  he  added,  drop- 
ping the  hand,  and  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
"You  never  saw  his  eyes  beam  with  tenderness  greater 
than  a  woman's;  or  flash  in  battle  when  he  led  his  regi- 
ment forward  in  the  face  of  death.  How  the  soldiers 
loved  him  !  And  how  tender  he  was  of  them,  even  the 
least  of  them  !  He  felt  for  all  their  woes  and  wounds 
and  sufferings ;  and  in  the  midst  of  his  arduous  duties  he 
found  time  to  write  their  dying  messages  to  friends  at 
home, — tender,  comforting  letters  that  could  not  but 
soothe  the  hearts  his  sad  tidings  wounded.  He  told  them 
where  their  loved  ones  were  sleeping,  and  marked  their 
graves  often  with  his  own  hands.  And  now  he  is 
dead!" 

He  ceased  speaking,  but  continued  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  groaning,  but  shedding  no  tears.  And 

32 


374  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

where  was  the  voice  that  would  have  comforted  him  for 
its  own  awful  silence  !  Had  it  gone  out  on  the  pitiless 
night-wind  calling  him — Charley,  Charley? — and  he  had 
not  answered. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  consequences  to  others 
(and  with  a  feeling  of  jealousy  that  any  but  himself 
should  have  a  claim  upon  Burr)  that  would  follow  upon 
this  terrible  death.  He  remembered  Miss  Clyde,  and  his 
heart  ached  for  her.  He  remembered  Laura  Wallihan — 
as  Burr  had  called  her,  and  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  consider  her  as  Burr's  wife — with  a  bitterness  that 
amounted  to  hatred.  One  thing  he  determined  upon  : 
if  possible  he  would  prevent  Burr's  history  from  being 
made  public.  Miss  Clyde  might  have  the  sad  privilege 
of  mourning  for  him  if  she  would,  he  would  take  pains 
that  her  grief  should  not  be  poisoned,  by  this  terrible  rev- 
elation. 

Dr.  Webster,  seeing  that  his  mind  was  in  some  way 
diverted,  asked  if  he  would  not  now  go  below. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  he.  "No,  I  shall  stay  here.  The 
time  will  be  short  enough." 

So  the  doctor  went  away  and  left  him. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  Burr's  side.  Cold  drops 
were  starting  out  on  his  forehead  and  about  his  mouth, 
and  there  was  a  strange  trembling  at  his  heart  as  he  re- 
flected how  utterly  alone  he  was  now ;  and  for  the  second 
time  in  his  life  he  pitied  himself.  Then  he  remembered 
Wilma,  and  vaguely  wondered  whether  the  past  might 
not  be  bridged  over,  and  they  two  clasp  hands  again  as 
in  their  tender  young  spring-time,  or  with  even  a  better 
understanding  and  appreciation  of  each  other;  for  they 
could  both  see  things  more  clearly  now  than  in  those 
days.  They  had  both  suffered.  But  when  he  remem- 
bered the  grave  reserve  of  her  manner,  though  it  was 
kind  and  not  resentful,  he  doubted  whether  anything 
could  be  done.  And  certainly  he  had  not  the  heart  to 
try.  What  mattered  anything  now  ! 

Somebody  opened  the  door  and  said,  "Mr.  Burns, 
there  is  a  lady  here  who  wishes  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Burns  started  up,  thinking  of  Miss  Cleveland, — 
there  was  certainly  no  other  woman  in  the  place  who 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK.  375 

would  come  to  show  him  a  little  sympathy, — and  asked, 
"  Can  she  come  up  here  ?" 

"Maybe  so;  I'll  see,"  said  the  messenger,  and  went 
down. 

Presently  a  tall  woman  in  black  entered,  and  put  aside 
her  veil,  revealing  the  noble  but  much  changed  face  of 
Mrs.  Rosevelt. 

"  I  learn  that  you  have  trouble  as  well  as  we,  Mr. 
Burns,"  she  said,  coming  up  and  giving  him  her  hand, 
or,  rather,  clasping  his  with  a  strong,  sympathetic  clasp. 
"  We  supposed  Mr.  Courtenay  purposely  evaded  coming 
when  we  sent  for  him,  and  it  was  so  imperative  that  he 
should  come  that  I  came  myself  to  fetch  him.  I  presume 
you  did  not  know,  Mr.  Burns,  that  your  friend  had  a  wife 
and  son?" 

"A  son!  impossible,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "I  learned 
very  recently  that  he  had  a  wife." 

"And  a  son,  also,"  repeated  Mrs.  Rosevelt,  "whom 
it  will  surprise  you  to  know  is  our  Frank." 

"  Your  Frank  !  Frank  Rosevelt." 

It  required  but  a  momentary  retrospection  of  his  brief 
acquaintance  with  the  young  man  to  enable  Mr.  Burns  to 
adjust  his  mind  to  the  startling  fact.  The  next  moment 
he  wondered  why  he  had  not  discovered  it  for  himself. 
There  was  every  resemblance  between  father  and  son ; 
voice,  face,  manner,  gestures.  Except  that  Frank  was  a 
sort  of  refinement  of  Burr, — smaller  in  stature  and  more 
delicate  in  mental  and  moral  organization. 

"  My  sisters  will  reveal  these  things  to  Frank,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Rosevelt,  "and  I  thought  it  but  right  that 
Mr.  Courtenay  should  recognize  the  son  beside  the  dead 
body  of  the  mother." 

'•Then  she  is  dead?"  said  Mr.  Burns,  not  without  a 
feeling  of  relief. 

"Yes,  both  she  and  my  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevelt. 

There  was  something  so  touching  in  the  way  this  grand 
woman  seemed  to  reserve  her  own  griefs  that  Mr.  Burns 
silently  clasped  her  hand  again. 

"Our  troubles,  if  nothing  else,  ought  to  unite  us,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Rosevelt,"  he  said.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can 
do  for  you?" 


376  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

"Nothing,  except  to  let  it  be  known  that  your  friend 
had  a  son  who  will  inherit  his  name." 

Mr.  Burns  drew  back.  He  was  thinking  of  Miss 
Clyde. 

"Is  that  necessary,  Mrs.  Rosevelt,"  he  asked.  Mrs. 
Rosevelt  looked  up  with  a  flash  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  mean  does  the  young  man  wish  it,"  he  continued. 

"I  hardly  know  whether  he  wishes  it,"  she  returned. 
"  But  circumstances  force  it  upon  him." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  speak  of  it  to  you," 
said  Mr.  Burns,  with  an  impulse  to  be  frank  with  her, 
"but  my  friend,  not  knowing  that  he  had  a  wife  living, 
has  for  years  past  been  paying  attention  to  a  young  lady 
here,  in  the  village.  I  was  thinking  that  it  would  be 
very  embarrassing  to  her  to  have  these  things  brought  to 
light." 

"  Hardly  as  embarrassing  for  her,  I  think,"  returned 
Mrs.  Rosevelt,  "as  for  Mr.  Courtenay's  son  to  continue 
all  his  life — and  consciously,  too — in  a  false  position;  any 
disinterested  person,  Mr.  Burns,  must  see  that  he,  first  of 
all,  should  receive  justice." 

Mr.  Burns's  better  judgment  decided  so,  too. 

"  Where  is  he?"  he  asked.    "  Did  he  come  with  you?" 

"Yes;  he  is  below,  waiting  to  see  his  father." 

His  father ! 

Mr.  Burns  thought  it  was  a  bitter  thing  to  have  his 
friend  wrenched  from  him  in  these  last  hours.  He  turned 
and  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  while  he 
stood  there  looking  out  of  the  window  the  young  man 
came  in.  He  heard  his  voice  and  started,  it  was  so  like 
Burr's.  But  he  did  not  turn  round.  By  and  by,  Frank 
came  up  to  him,  and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  gentle  cour- 
tesy that  was  also  much  like  Burr's  in  his  softer  moods ; 
and  his  young,  beautiful  face,  now  white  with  intense,  sor- 
rowful emotion,  was  not  without  a  close  resemblance  to 
the  marble  face  yonder.  Not  so  proud  and  not  altogether 
so  perfect,  but  possessing  even  greater  winsomeness,  and 
a  fascination  equally  strong,  but  not  dangerous. 

"I  have  not  come  to  rob  you  of  your  friend,  Mr. 
Burns,"  he  said,  sadly.  "I  have  only  come  to  mourn 
with  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  an  intruder." 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  377 

"  No  ;  you  have  the  better  right,"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

"  Pray,  do  not  say  so  !"  Frank  returned,  feeling  hurt. 
"  It  is  mockery.  I  have  no  right.  He  never  knew  of 
my  existence.  I  was  nothing  to  him,  but  he,  of  neces- 
sity, is  something  to  me." 

Mr.  Burns  felt  rebuked.  A  sense  of  delicacy  induced 
him,  by  and  by,  to  offer  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Rosevelt  and  go 
below,  leaving  the  young  man  alone  with  his  dead  father. 
He  asked  Mrs.  Rosevelt  if  Burr  and  his  wife  were  to  be 
buried  together. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned.  "They  were  not  united  in 
life,  why  should  they  be  in  death?  My  sister  will  be 
carried  to-morrow  to  Winchester  Cemetery,  which  is 
nearer  to  us ;  of  course  we  shall  leave  all  this  to  you." 

Burr's  funeral  was  not  to  take  place  until  the  day  after. 

There  were  no  railroads  to  connect  High-Water-Mark 
with  any  other  town,  but  in  a  few  hours  the  news  had 
spread  far  and  wide.  Mr.  Woodbury  and  several  other 
gentlemen  drove  down  from  Hammond  Springs  and  del- 
icately consulted  with  Mr.  Burns  about  the  arrangements 
for  the  burial,  which  he  begged  to  entrust  wholly  to  them; 
the  simpler  citizens  of  High-Water-Mark  standing  back 
a  little  in  awe  of  them. 

The  day  of  the  burial  Mr.  Burns  was  unable  to  leave 
his  room.  He  sat  the  greater  part  of  the  time  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  groaning  from  time  to  time,  but 
speaking  to  no  one  unless  especially  addressed.  Even  the 
first  shock  was  hardly  so  bad  as  this  fuller  realization  of 
his  loss.  To  think  that  he  should  be  living  in  the  world 
without  Burr !  He  had  gradually  let  go  of  everything 
save  this  one  friend,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  hold 
to.  He  listened  for  hours  to  the  constant  stream  of  people 
filing  up  and  down  the  narrow  stairs  and  in  and  out  the 
long,  dim  parlor,  and  felt  that  it  was  almost  unbearable. 

No  fire  had  been  kindled  in  the  long 'parlor,  and  Burr 
still  lay  in  all  his  splendid  beauty,  not  even  having  lost 
his  awe-inspiring  presence.  They  had  dressed  him  in  the 
blue  uniform  he  had  taken  off  when  he  left  the  army ; 
and  from  all  the  towns  and  villages  around  came  squads 
of  soldiers  to  do  honor  to  him.  Scarcely  one  person  in 

32* 


378  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

the  community  but  what  claimed  the  privilege  of  a  last 
look;  and  none  approached  him  irreverently  or  gazed 
upon  him  without  emotion.  A  few  wizen-faced  old 
women,  who  had  been  wont  to  shake  their  heads  at  men- 
tion of  his  name,  laid  their  yellow,  skinny  hands  upon 
his  forehead,  and  wondered  how  Evelyn  Clyde  would 
take  it. 

Poor  Evelyn  !  in  her  proud,  happy  days  she  had  gath- 
ered her  treasures  into  her  own  heart.  No  mortal  shared 
them.  Now  they  were  in  ashes  and  utter  ruin,  and  she 
turned  her  heart  into  a  sepulchre  and  cherished  them  still. 
And  with  the  stoicism  of  a  cold,  proud  nature,  whose 
every  feeling  and  hope  were  centred  upon  an  object  and 
wrecked  in  an  overthrow,  she  closed  her  lips  and  went 
about  silent  and  cold  and  white,  almost,  as  he  who  had 
died  in  the  snow. 


CHAPTER   L. 

THE  fever  which  Dr.  Webster  had  intimated  as  likely 
to  follow  Mr.  Burns's  exposure  followed  in  due  course. 
The  torturing  ceremonies  of  funeral  and  burial  were  hardly 
over  before  he  fell  into  a  state  of  forgetfulness  lasting 
many  days. 

Frank  Courtenay  begged  leave  of  her  whom  he  still 
called  "mother"  to  stay  with  him.  "I  will  take  my 
father's  place  to  him,  in  as  far  as  I  can,"  he  said,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  "  It  must  be,"  he  added,  "  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  good  in  my  father,  else  a  man  like 
Mr.  Burns  could  not  have  loved  him  so." 

Dr.  Webster,  also,  was  especially  kind  and  attentive  ; 
and  when  at  last  intelligence  returned  to  the  long-wan- 
dering eyes,  and  with  it  the  crushed  sadness  that  comes 
after  sickness  and  grief,  these  two  were  beside  him.  But 
sympathy  from  strangers,  at  first,  was  so  distasteful  that 
he  turned  away.  And  then,  little  by  little,  their  thought- 
ful presence  and  tender  care  won  upon  him  and  softened 
his  heart  with  feelings  he  had  thought  would  never  spring 
up  again.  Dr.  Webster,  who  was  gaining  a  small  practice, 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  3  79 

often  left  him  alone  with  young  Courtenay  ;  and  gradually 
they  began  to  speak  of  Burr ;  and  Mr.  Burns  recalled  and 
poured  into  the  ears  of  the  deeply-sympathetic  son  a 
thousand  incidents  of  his  life,  until  he  seemed  a  hero. 

There  was  a  broad  charity  in  the  soul  of  this  young 
man  that  could  look  with  impartial  eyes  on  the  lives  of 
his  parents,  nor  judge  them  harshly  or  with  reference  to 
the  sorrow  they  had  brought  upon  himself. 

Mr.  Burns  saw  it,  and  came  to  love  the  gentle  youth 
whose  pure  life  seemed  purged  of  all  the  evils  that  had 
befallen  theirs.  Certainly  all  that  was  good  and  noble  in 
Burr  Courtenay  survived  in  this  son  whom  he  had  given 
to  the  world.  Though  he  was  so  young,  he  was  ripe  in 
thought  and  study  ;  and  a  strong  and  deeply-sympathetic 
imagination  in  him  took  the  place  of  experience  in  older 
people.  He  had  inherited  Burr's  eloquence  and  remark- 
able command  of  language.  But  Burr's  personal  ambition 
had  been  transmitted  to  him  in  the  broader  form  of  a  de- 
sire— backed  by  a  strong  energy  of  will — to  help  others 
forward.  Burr's  tender-heartedness  led  him  to  do  a  thou- 
sand kindnesses,  but  his  pride  kept  him  always  aloof  from 
others.  Frank  was  reserved,  but  the  book  of  his  inmost 
life  might  be  laid  before  the  world. 

Mr.  Burns  remembered  a  theory  of  Burr's ;  that  no 
good  thing,  once  existing,  can  ever  be  lost ;  and  that  any 
being  endowed  with  the  life-principle,  will  give  out  life  in 
some  form  for  the  good  of  the  world, — as  Michael  Angelo 
his  pictures,  as  Beethoven  his  music,  as  Homer  his  poems, 
as  Washington  his  patriotism,  and,  Mr.  Burns  added, 
as  Burr  Courtenay  his  son.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him 
almost  as  if  his  friend  had  passed  through  some  strange 
transformation  and  come  back  to  him.  And  yet  the  great 
difference  remained  that  the  consciousness  of  the  one  was 
not  the  consciousness  of  the  other.  Showing  that  no 
being  can  slip  into  another's  place,  but  that  each  must 
make  his  own  niche  in  the  world  and  in  the  heart  of  a 
friend.  No  one  can  dislodge  another,  and  himself  fill  the 
vacancy  ;  the  world  is  broad  and  the  heart  is  elastic  ;  and 
no  one  being  can  fill  the  mould  that  has  been  fashioned 
by  another.  And  so  Mr.  Burns  mourned  still  for  the 
friend  whose  history  was  so  interwoven  with  his  own, 


3  8o  HIGH-  WA  TER-MA  RK. 

and  with  whose  soul  he  had  become  so  familiar  in  their 
long  years  of  intimacy.  Even  after  he  was  able  to  get  up 
and  go  about  he  delayed,  many  weeks,  returning  to  the 
office.  His  wound  was  too  tender  to  bear,  yet,  any 
probing. 

One  day,  about  the  opening  of  spring,  Frank  said  to 
him,  "  Mr.  Burns,  I  must  leave  you  now  and  go  back  to 
my  studies." 

"  How  can  I  spare  you?"  said  Mr.  Burns. 

But  in  the  end  it  was  better.  The  effect  of  the  young 
man's  earnest  resolution  to  take  his  place  in  the  world 
and  prepare  for  work  was  more  strengthening  to  the  in- 
valid, who  was  an  invalid  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body, 
than  even  his  tender  care  of  him. 

We  have  many  precepts ;  but  those  things  that  stand 
out  like  lights  upon  a  dark  road,  in  the  long  history  of  the 
world,  are  noble  lives  that  have  not  been  turned  aside  by 
the  little  pebbles  of  circumstance,  but  have  gone  straight 
to  a  grand  aim. 

Dr.  Webster,  in  the  light  and  brightness  of  advancing 
spring,  began  to  look  shabby  as  to  his  clothes,  which 
were  getting  threadbare,  and  to  talk  about  going  back 
home. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "You  have  got  a 
foothold,  and  we  are  sure  to  have  better  times  when  the 
railroad  is  completed.  Come  into  my  office,  you  are  very 
welcome ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  take  pleasure  in 
making  you  a  loan  of  a  few  dollars.  And  you  shall  have 
the  use  of  my  horse  for  your  country  practice.  Are  the 
inducements  sufficient?" 

Dr.  Webster  answered  by  grasping  his  hand.  "You 
are  a  true  friend,"  said  he,  and  added,  "  I  do  not  know 
what  I  could  do  if  I  went  home ;  my  mother  is  a  widow 
and  poor,  and  the  town  in  which  she  lives  is  already 
supplied  with  medical  talent.  There  would  be  nothing 
for  me  there  except  manual  labor  of  some  kind,  and  I 
have  not  fitted  myself  for  that." 

"  And  you  shall  not  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Burns.  "  There 
are  more  hands  in  the  world  than  brains." 

The  doctor  had  it  in  his  mind  to  tell  him  that  some 
time  back,  when  his  prospects  had  seemed  brighter,  he  had 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK.  38  x 

thought  he  might  some  day  ask  Maggie  Atherton  to  be 
his  wife ;  but  he  did  not  mention  it  until  several  weeks 
afterward,  when  they  had  both  gone  into  the  office  and 
the  doctor  had  arranged  his  medical  books  beside  the 
ponderous  law-books.  Then  Mr.  Burns  said,  "  Why  not 
do  it  now?  My  dear  friend,  if  you  have  a  great  happi- 
ness within  your  reach,  grasp  it  and  hold  it  close  to  your 
heart,  or  it  will  vanish  from  you.  Maggie  has  property, 
and  it  seems  to  me  she  could  get  no  better  security  for  it 
than  you  are  able  to  give." 

"Is  that  really  the  way  to  look  at  it?"  said  Dr.  Web- 
ster, doubtfully. 

Mr.  Burns  said,  smiling,  "It  is  the  way  in  which  I,  a 
man  of  experience,  of  gray  hairs,  and  of  legal  mind, 
look  at  it.  What  more  would  you  have?" 

"  Nothing  !"  said  the  doctor.  "And  I  will  take  your 
advice  in  this,  as  in  many  other  things,  my  best  friend." 

Mr.  Burns  went  with  him  occasionally  to  Deacon 
Clyde's,  and  offered  to  poor  Evelyn  the  most  delicate 
sympathy  his  tender  soul  could  devise,  and  that  came 
nearer  to  softening  the  ice  about  her  heart  than  any  other 
influence.  She  came  at  last  to  lean  upon  him  a  little,  and 
her  crushed  soul  began  to  send  out  little  tendrils  in  other 
directions.  She  grew  kind  to  the  poor,  and  made  a  good 
many  homes  brighter  for  her  queenly  presence  in  them  ; 
and  little  Maggie,  always  loving  her  and  admiring  her 
above  all  others,  worshipped  her  now.  She  seemed,  in 
some  sort,  sanctified  by  having  been  the  altar  on  which  a 
great  fire  of  love  was  kindled. 

The  spring  came  on  apace.  Work  on  the  railroad  was 
going  forward  with  a  great  rush,  and  High-Water-Mark 
prospects  were  brilliant.  Earth  seemed  new  and  happy, 
and  the  world  was  alive  with  singing  birds  and  whistling 
ploughboys;  and  the  green  grass  waved  over  Burr  Courte- 
hay's  grave. 


382  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

ONE  day,  in  looking  over  the  papers,  Mr.  Burns  saw  a 
reference  to  Miss  Stuvysant,  who,  with  her  friend,  had 
left  High-Water-Mark  the  day  upon  which  Mr.  Courtenay 
was  buried,  and  gone  back  East. 

"  She  does  not  need  me,"  said  he,  bitterly  ;  "and  yet, 
by  my  own  act,  she  was  made  independent  of  me.  I  was 
the  only  thing  she  leaned  upon,  and  when  I  wrenched 
myself  away  from  her  she  grew  up  tall  and  strong.  Well, 
they  say  the  only  way  to  reach  our  highest  possibilities  is 
to  have  our  props  taken  away  !  And  yet,  God  pity  us  all 
who  are  left  standing  alone  !" 

Dr.  Webster  had  told  him  a  few  days  before  that  the 
deacon  had  given  his  consent  to  his  marriage  with  Mag- 
gie, and  that  the  wedding  was  soon  to  take  place.  A  part 
of  Maggie's  property  consisted  of  a  house  and  grounds 
not  far  from  the  deacon's;  and  repairs  and  furnishing 
had  already  begun,  and  Maggie  was  as  happy  as  a  bird, 
with  perhaps  the  exception  of  a  tender  little  regret,  now 
and  then,  over  her  first  love. 

"But  after  all,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  consolingly, 
"  Dr.  Webster  will,  maybe,  make  me  happier  than  Mr. 
Burns  could.  For  Mr.  Burns  has  never  seemed  to  me 
to  be  quite  happy  himself;  and  yet,"  she  added,  thought- 
fully, with  a  common,  egotistic,  and  yet  pretty  conceit, 
"  if  he  had  loved  me  and  married  me,  I  might  have  made 
him  happy.  I  would  have  been  so  good  to  him,  like  the 
poor  soul  in  '  Tender  and  True.' '  And  then  she  would 
pull  herself  up  sharply,  and  chide  herself  for  disloyalty 
to  the  doctor,  who — she  told  herself  severely — never 
dreamed  of  her  being  such  a  deceitful  little  wretch. 

It  had  been  her  great  wish  from  the  first  hour  of  her 
engagement  to  go  on  a  long  wedding-trip,  away  down 
East,  to  visit  the  doctor's  relatives,  and  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  mountains  and  of  the  great  ocean.  And  so,  almost 
the  first  Eastern  bound  train  that  passed  through  High- 
Water-Mark  carried  away  the  happy  bride  and  groom, 


HIGH-  WA  TE R-MARK. 


383 


and  the  white,  stately  Evelyn,  whom  Maggie  had  begged 
and  entreated,  with  tears,  to  accompany  them.  It  was  in 
the  evening,  and  Mr.  Burns  had  gone  with  them  to  the 
depot,  which  was  distant  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the 
centre  of  the  village,  and  had  bidden  them  "good-by," 
and  waved  his  handkerchief  as  the  train  swept  away. 

Before  returning  to  the  office  he  went  down  and 
walked,  by  moonlight,  along  the  river  bank,  recalling, — 
as  only  the  strongly  imaginative  can  recall, — with  vivid 
memory,  his  past  life,  and  the  friends  who,  one  by  one, 
had  dropped  away  from  him.  "Is  there,  then,"  he 
murmured,  "no  reality  in  these  sweet  things, — Love  and 
Friendship?  Is  the  practical  part  of  life — the  eating  and 
drinking  and  accumulating — all  that  is  left  to  us  in  our 
latter  years?  Oh,  that  a  little  of  the  poetry  and  sweet- 
ness would  linger  round  us  all  the  way  down  the  long 
journey  !" 

Frank  Courtenay  had  written  a  poem  for  the  Alumni  of 
his  alma  mater,  and  sent  him  a  printed  copy.  When  he 
read  it,  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  here  was  a  na- 
ture that  would  preserve  the  best  things  of  life  to  its  very 
close.  He  would  never  lose  faith  in  humanity ;  he  would 
think  it  always  worth  his  grandest  efforts  to  work  for  the 
bettering  of  the  race. 

He  had  written  in  one  of  the  many  beautiful  letters 
Mr.  Burns  received  from  him,  "It  should  be  the  great 
effort  of  each  generation  to  work  for  the  good  of  itself, 
and  increase  the  annual  aggregate  of  happiness  of  its  mil- 
lions. I  believe  strongly  in  the  present ;  because  it  is  our 
one,  actual  possession."  And  again,  "  We  are  not  justi- 
fied, it  seems  to  me,  in  cheapening  and  depreciating  this 
life,  as  ministers  and  psalmists  often  do,  by  calling  it  a 
'  fleeting  show,'  a  'day  of  probation,'  and  so  forth.  To 
me  it  is  a  noble  gift,  to  be  enjoyed  and  made  beautiful. 
Whatever  man's  future  may  be,  in  his  present  form  and 
conditions,  he  is  certainly  created  with  directest  reference 
to  the  world  he  inhabits ;  let  him  get  as  much  good  out 
of  the  world  and  give  as  much  to  it  as  is  in  his  nature, 
and  he  will  have  little  time  to  expend  in  vague  specula- 
tions of  what  may  come  hereafter.  I  can  see  so  much 
and  enjoy  so  much,  in  one  little  hour,  of  actual  beauty  ! 


384  HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 

Why  should  I  close  my  eyes  and  let  ray  fancy  revel  in  the 
unreal?" 

Walking  along  beside  the  river-bank,  and  thinking  partly 
of  his  young  friend  and  partly  of  his  own  youth,  when  he 
was  hopeful  and  full  of  zest,  Mr.  Burns  felt  a  sudden 
strong  desire  to  revisit  his  boyhood's  home  and  his 
mother's  grave.  Perhaps  something  of  what  he  had  lost 
would  return  to  him  in  that  sacred  spot.  He  had  never 
sold  his  mother's  little  cottage;  and  he  pictured  it  stand- 
ing in  its  orchard  of  apple,  and  peach,  and  wild  plum 
trees,  the  flagstones  in  front  covered  with  moss,  maybe, 
and  the  grass  and  weeds  growing  rank  around  it.  The 
thought  of  going  back  to  it,  of  perhaps  making  up  his 
mind  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  years  in  that  quiet  spot, 
came  like  an  inspiration,  quickening  the  sluggish  stream 
of  his  life  into  a  strong  current.  He  turned  about  and 
walked  hurriedly  home  ;  packed  some  clothes  into  a  small 
trunk,  and  sat  up  all  night,  dozing  from  time  to  time  in 
his  chair,  waiting  for  the  early  morning  train. 

"  Let  us  make  haste,  Wilma,  or  the  sun  will  be  down 
before  we  reach  the  top  of  Little  Twin,  and  I  don't  want 
to  miss  it  to-night ;  it's  my  last  chance  for  a  good  many 
months,  you  know." 

The  shadows  lay  upon  Hazelview  exactly  as  they  had 
done  ten  years  before ;  and  the  sun,  throwing  his  level 
beams  from  low  down  in  the  west,  lighted  up  the  tops  of 
the  hills  and  trees.  Mr.  Burns  was  crossing  the  race  alone 
upon  the  two  logs  thrown  over  it,  when  these  words  came 
back  to  him  exactly  as  he  had  uttered  them  so  long  ago, 
as  though  given  back  in  echo  from  the  low  hills  hemming 
in  the  quiet  water.  Involuntarily  he  cast  his  eyes  west- 
ward and  quickened  his  steps  up  the  long  hill  and  stood 
finally  upon  its  summit  with  uncovered  head.  He  had 
gazed  upon  many  a  grander  scene,  but  none  that  shed 
such  peace  upon  his  soul, — a  peace  so  tender  and  sweet 
that  it  caused  tears  to  well  up  in  his  eyes. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  had  he  actually  lived  those  ten 
years  that  used  to  stretch  out  so  gloriously  beyond  him  ! 

He  gazed  down  upon  the  changeless  water  lying  far 


HIGH-  WA  TER-MARK. 


385 


below,  in  the  shadow,  with  just  the  moon  dipping  into  it 
and  throwing  a  shining  pathway  athwart  it,  as  it  had  done 
so  many,  many  nights  before ;  as  it  had  done  on  that  last 
memorable  night.  He  stood  still  and  fancied  Wilma  be- 
side him,  looking  up  with  her  soulful  eyes.  Surely,  surely, 
this  must  be  real !  The  past  has  rolled  back  and  they 
stand  again,  hand  in  hand,  at  the  entrance  of  life. 

There  was  a  cloud  before  the  sun,  purple  and  crimson 
and  gold.  It  broke  away  gradually,  and  the  sun  burst 
forth  and  shone  for  a  moment  gloriously,  then  went  down. 
Mr.  Burns's  spirit  sank  into  profound  sadness.  He  stood 
with  folded  arms  and  bowed  head,  his  cloak  thrown  back 
over  his  shoulders.  He  fancied  something  touched  him 
upon  the  arm,  and  started  and  looked  around.  Surely,  it 
must  be  Wilma's  presence  that  steals  upon  him  in  the 
half-darkness !  All  at  once,  upon  the  perfect  stillness  of 
the  hour,  breaks  the  tolling  of  a  bell,  down  below.  One, 
— two, — three, — he  counted  the  strokes  mechanically,  up 
to  twenty-six.  As  the  lingering  vibration  of  the  last 
mournful  stroke  died  away,  he  turned  and  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  village.  He  inquired  of  the  first  person  he 
met, — a  stranger, — "  Who  is  dead?" 

"A  lady,  somewhat  noted  as  an  elocutionist,  who  re- 
turned here  a  few  days  ago  after  an  absence  of  some 
years,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  have  forgotten  the  name 
she  went  by,  but  the  old  settlers  call  her  Wilma  Lynne." 


THE    END. 


33 


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profound  a  sensation  when  presented 


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Must  It  Be?    A  Romance.     From  the  German  of 

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HISTORY  OF  FERDINAND  AND  ISABELLA, 

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HISTORY  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  MEXICO, 

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HISTORY  OF  THE  CONQUEST  OF  PERU, 

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HISTORY  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  CHARLES  V., 

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A    000  028  596    5 


